UU-NHLh 


lift 


S 


OBERON  AND  PUCK. 


OBERON  AND  PUCK 


VERSES  GRAVE  AND  GAY 


BY 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE 


NEW  YORK 

CASSELL    &    COMPANY,    LIMITED 
739    &    741    BROADWAY 


COPYRIGHT,  1885, 
BY  O.  M.  DUNHAM. 


PRESS   OF   HUNTER   &    BEACH, 
NEW   YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


OBERON. 

PAGE 


OBERON 


THE  ACCOLADE 


THE  OLIVE  BOUGH 


n 


21 


FLOWER  FANCIES  :  I.—  A  YELLOW  PANSY        .....  2S 

II.  —  A  HOUSE  DIVIDED       .......  2~ 

III.  —  A  SONG  OF  FAILURE        .......  28 

IV.  —  THE  DANDELIONS         .......  2g 

V.—  A  FAIRY  TALE         ........  30 

LEPAGE'S  JOAN  OF  ARC         .......  _2 

THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE      ...... 

A  NOCTURNE  OF  RUBINSTEIN         ...... 

AN  EPITAPH  ON  A  BUTTERFLY  DROWNED  IN  THE  SEA    .        .  4i 
EMELIE     ........... 

ELSINORE  . 


FlAMMETT 


371391 


A  RONDEL  OF  PARTING 
A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING 
AT  EASTER-TIDE    . 
TO-DAY 


A  CONSERVATIVE ^ 

A  RADICAL 60 

A  RETROGRADE 61 

THE  RESOLVE .5., 

THE  XooNixG ^ 

THE  INHERITANCE 64 

LONG  SUMMER  DAYS 66 

THE  GOLDEXROD 

HEY  ROBIN,  JOLLY  ROBIN  ! ^ 

THE  UNDERSONG 7l 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  YEAR ^ 

A  CHARMED  CUP 73 

IN  HUSH  OF  NIGHT 74 

THE  WAYFARERS ^ 

Ax  INVOCATIOX  nr  A  LIBRARY 7g 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW go 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON :2 

ON  LAXDOR'S  HELLENICS :, 

BACH'S  ST.  MATTHEW  PASSION  Mosic         ....  84 

SALVINI'S  OTHELLO    .......  g- 

ELLEX  TERRY'S  BEATRICE    ......  ;.- 

"  SONGS  OF  A  SEMITE  " g^ 

ri 


CONTENTS. 

TAG* 

ON  READING  THE  POEMS  or  EDITH  THOXAS    ....        89 

POSIES:     I.— FRIENDSHIP 90 

IL— A  ROSE 90 

III.— WISTARIA 91 

IV.— Ox  A  FLY-LIBAF 91 

Ax  IVORY  MINIATURE .    ga 

To  MY  GOLDFISH 95 

"  As  THE  CROW  FLIES  " 97 

SPRIGS  o'  HEATHER  :    I.— To  COME**  YEARS      ....        98 

II.— WONDEBFC*  SLEE 99 

IIL— MY  ADJ,  Aix  LASS 100 

EVENING  PRIMROSES 102 

A  HUMMING-BIRD 103 

CHILD  SONGS  :    I.— WOOL  GATHERING 104 

II. — THE  LAND  WITHOUT  A  NAXE 105 

III.— A  LULLABY  .  106 


PUCK. 

PUCK TOO 

NARCISSUS  rx  CAMDEX no 

THE  SONG  OF  Snt  PALAMEDE 118 

A  MERRY  JEST  OF  A  MODKRX  MAID 123 

THE  RHYVE  OF  THE  HERCULES  CLCB 125 

THE  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDRA  BROWK 129 

THE  SWEET  o*  THE  YEAR      ........      132 

THE  TENDER  HEART 138 

rn 


OBERON. 


OBERON 


OBERON,  Elferon, 
Pleasant  Prince  of  Faery! 

He  should  scarce  be  sung  of  me, — 
Me,  his  humblest  follower 
Wheresoe'er  a  branch  may  stir 
Signing,  "This  way  hath  he  gone, 

Oberon,    Elferon, 
Pleasant  Prince  of  Faery!" 

He  should  scarce  be  sung  of  me; 
Yet,  because,  of  his  high  grace, 
I  had  glimpse  once  of  his  face, — 
Moment  sweet  to  think  upon!  — 
I  his  celebrant  will  be. 

Blood  of  Pan  is  in  his  veins, 
And  oft  he  goes  in  great  Pan's  guise; 
But  not  of  Pan  is  all  his  mood, 
Godlike-careless,  dreamy-wise : 


•  •  :  -  •"•  XDBERON. 

Conscious  he  of  mortal  pains ! 
He  hath  shadows  in  his  eyes 
Such  as  under  hemlocks  brood; 
In  his  voice  he  hath  a  tone 
Like  unto  the  dark  pine's  moan ; 
Northland  bore  him,  not  the  South! 
Yet  rare  laughters  hath  his  mouth, 
Birch-leaf  laughters,  rippling  light. 


Clear  the  sense  of  every  sign 

Is  unto  his  perfect  sight, 

Sight  as  May-day  morning  young: 

Sounds  unto  his  hearing  fine 

Are  as  words  of  some  known  tongue. 

Cuckoo-flower  by  Avon's  brim, 

Muskrose  rich,  or  eglantine, 

Saith  nor  more  nor  less  to  him 

Than  arbutus  softly  saith 

With  its  blush  and  with  its  breath. 

Nightingale  in  Attic  wood 

Is  no  deeper  understood 

Than  our  bent-browed  mocker  gray, 

With  his  bright  eye  cool  and  clear, 

Sad  and  tender,  wild  and  gay, 

Dashing  skeptic  cavalier! 


OBERON. 

He  hath  not  the  virtue  missed 

In  our  violet's  amethyst, 

All  unscented  as  it  grows  : 

Healings  hid  in  jewel-tints 

Of  wing  and  petal  well  he  knows! 

Gems  the  shining  black-bird  shows 

On  his  purple  as  he  goes, 

And  the  blue  jay's  sapphire-glints, 

And  the  burning,  cordial  gold 

Of  the  oriole  blithe  and  bold. 

He  can  read  the  cipher-prints 

On  the  vans  of  butterflies, 

On  the  eggs  of  tiniest  wren; 

He  can  read  the  scarred  rock's  hints 

And  the  legends  of  the  skies; 

And  he  can  read  the  hearts  of  men. 

Ah,  since  thou  hast  smiled  on  me, 
Though  thy  face  no  more  I  see, 
Never  win  thy  benison, 
I  must  follow,  follow  thee, — 

Oberon,  Elferon, 
Pleasant  Prince  of  Poesy! 


THE  ACCOLADE. 

A  SONG   FOR   THE  BEGINNING.  * 
I. 

XT OW  filled  was  all  the  sum 

Of  serving  years,  and  past,  forever  past, 
All  duties,  all  delights,  of  young  esquires : 
And  to  the  altar  and  the  hour  at  last,  — 
The  hour,  the  altar,  of  his  dear  desires, — 
Clear-shriven  and  whitely  clad  the  youth  was  come. 

II. 

Full  many  a  squire  was  in  that  household  bred 
To  arms  and  honor  and  sweet  courtesy, 
Who  wore  that  sojourn's  fragrant  memory 
As  amulet  in  after-battles  dread  ; 
And  meeting  in  kings'  houses  joyously, 
Or,  wounded,  in  the  sedge  beside  a  lake, 
Such  men  were  bounden  brothers,  for  the  sake 
Of  the  blade  that  knighted  and  the  board  that  fed. 


*  A  Commencement  Poem,  read  to  the  Graduating  Class  at  Smith  College, 
June  i8th,  1884, 


OBERON. 

111. 

To  eastward  builded  was  the  oratory : 

There  all  the  warm  spring  night, — while  in  the  wood 

The  buds  were  swelling  in  the  brooding  dark, 

And  dreaming  of  a  lordlier  dawn  the  lark, — 

Paced  to  and  fro  the  youth,  and  dreamed  on  glory, 

And  watched  his  arms.     Great  knights  in  mailed  hood 

On  steeds  of  stone  sat  ranged  along  the  aisle, 

And  frowned  upon  the  aspirant:  "Who  is  he 

Would  claim  the  name  and  join  the  company 

Of  slayers  of  Soldans  swart  and  Dragons  grim, 

Not  ignorant  of  wanded  wizards'  guile, 

And  deserts  parched,  and  waters  wide  to  swim?" 

He  halted  at  the  challenge  of  the  dead. 

Anon,  in  twilight,  fancy  feigned  a  smile 

To  curve  the  carven  lips,  as  though  they  said, 

"  Oh  welcome,  brother,  of  whom  the  world  hath  need  ! 

Ere  the  recorded  deed 
We  trembled,  hoped,  and  doubted,  even  as  thou." 

And  therewithal  he  lifted  up  his  brow, 
Uplift  from  hesitance  and  humble  fear, 
And  saw  how  with  the  splendor  of  the  sun 
The  glimmering  oriel  blossomed  rosy-clear; 
And  lo,  the  Vigil  of  the  Arms  was  done! 


OBERON. 

IV. 

Now,  mass  being  said,  before  the  priest  he  brought 
That  glittering  prophecy,  his  untried  sword. 
In  some  mysterious  forge  the  blade  was  wrought, 
By  shadowy  arms  of  force  that  baffle  thought 
Wrought  curiously  in  the  dim  under-world  ; 
And  all  along  the  sheath  processions  poured, 
Thronged  shapes  of  earth's  weird  morn 
Ere  yet  the  hammer  of  Thor  was  downward  hurled  : 
Not  less  it  had  for  hilt  the  Cross  of  Christ  the  Lord, 
And  must  thereby  in  battle  aye  be  borne. 

V. 

Cool-sprinkled  with  the  consecrated  wave, 

That  blade  was  blessed,  that  it  should  strike  to  save ; 

And  next,  pure  hands  of  youth  in  hands  of  age 

Were  held  upon  the  page 
Of  the  illuminate  missal,  full  of  prayers, — 
Rich  fields,  wherethrough  the  river  of  souls  has  rushed 
Long,  long,  to  have  its  passion  held  and  hushed 
In  the  breast  of  that  calm  sea  whereto  it  fares : 
And  steadfastly  the  aspirant  vow  did  plight 
To  bear  the  sword,  or  break  it,  for  the  Right; 
And  living  well  his  life,  yet  hold  it  light, — 
Yea,  for  that  sovereign  sake  a  worthless  thing. 

16 


OBERON. 
VI. 

Thereon  a  troop  of  maids  began  to  bring, 
With  flutter  as  of  many-colored  doves, 
The  hauberk  that  right  martially  did  ring, 

And  weight  of  linked  gloves, 
And  helmet  plumed,  and  spurs  ablaze  with  gold. 
Each  gave  in  gracious  wise  her  guiding  word, 
As  bade  or  fresh  caprice,  or  usance  old: 
As,  Ride  thou  swift  by  golden  Honor  spurred 
Or,  Be  thou  faithful,  fortunate,  and  bold. 
But  scarce  for  his  own  heart  the  aspirant  heard. 


VII. 


And  armed,  all  save  the  head, 
He  kneeled  before  his  master  gray  and  good. 
Like  some  tall,  noble,  ancient  ship  he  stood, 

That  once  swept  o'er  the  tide 
With  banners,  and  freight  of  heroes  helmeted 
For  worthy  war,  and  music  breathing  pride. 

Now,  the  walled  cities  won, 
And  storms  withstood,  and  all  her  story  spun, 
She  towers  in  sand  beside  some  sunny  bay, 
Whence  in  the  silvery  morn  new  barks  go  sailing  gay. 
17 


OBERON. 

So  stately  stood  the  Knight : 
And  with  a  mighty  arm,  and  with  a  blade 
Reconsecrate  at  fiery  fonts  of  fight, 
He  on  the  bowed  neck  gave  the  accolade. 

Yet  kneeled  the  youth  bewildered,  for  the  stroke 
Seemed  severance  sharp  of  kind  companionships; 
And  the  strange  pain  of  parting  in  him  woke; 
And  as  at  midnight  when  a  branch  down  dips 
By  sudden-swaying  tempest  roughly  stirred, 

Some  full-fledged  nested  bird, 
Being  shaken  forth,  though  fain  of  late  to  fly, 
Now  flickers  with  weak  wing  and  wistful  cry, — 

So  flickered  his  desires 

'Twixt  knighthood,  and  delights  and  duties  of  esquires. 
But  even  as  with  the  morrow  will  uprise, 

Assured  by  azure  skies, 

The  bird,  and  dart,  and  swim  in  buoyant  air, — 
Uprose  his  soul,  and  found  the  future  free  and  fair! 

VIII. 

And  girded  with  Farewell  and  with  Godspeed 

He  sprang  upon  his  steed. 

And  forth  he  fared  along  the  broad  bright  way; 
And  mild  was  the  young  sun,  and  wild  the  breeze, 
That  seemed  to  blow  to  lands  no  eye  had  seen  ; 

18 


OBERON. 

And  Pentecost  had  kindled  all  the  trees 
To  tremulous  thin  whispering"  flames  of  green, 
And  given  to  each  a  sacred  word  to  say  ; 
And  wind-fine  voices  of  the  wind-borne  birds 
Were  ever  woven  in  among  their  words. 
Soft-brooding  o'er  the  hamlet  where  it  lay, 
The  circling  hills  stood  stoled  with  holy  white, 
For  orchards  brake  to  blossom  in  the  night; 
And  all  the  morning  was  one  blown  blue  flower, 
And  all  the  world  was  at  its  perfect  hour. 
So  fared  he  gladly,  and  his  spirit  yearned 
To  do  some  deed  fit  for  the  deep  new  day. 

And  on  the  broad  bright  way  his  armor  burned, 
And  showed  him  still,  a  shifting,  waning  star, 

To  sight  that  followed  far. 

Till,  last,  the  fluctuant  wood  the  flash  did  whelm, 
That  flood-like  rolled  in  light  and  shadow  o'er  his  helm. 


IX. 

I  know  not  more :  nor  if  that  helm  did  rust 
In  weed  of  some  drear  wilderness  down-thrust, 

Where  in  the  watches  lone 
Heaven's  host  beheld  him  lying  overthrown, 

19 


OBERON. 

While  God  yet  judged  him  victor,  God  whose  laws 

Note  not  the  event  of  battle,  but  the  cause. 

I  know  not  more :  nor  if  the  nodding  prize 

Of  lustrous  laurels  ere  that  helm  did  crown, 

While  God  yet  judged  him  vanquished,  God  whose  eyes 

Saw  how  his  Demon  smote  his  Angel  down 

In  some  forgotten  field  and  left  him  low. 

Only  the  perfect  hour  is  mine  to  know. 

X. 

0  you  who  forth  along  the  highway  ride, 

Whose  quest  the  whispering  wood  shall  close  around, 
Be  all  adventure  high  that  may  betide, 
And  gentle  all  enchantments  therein  found  ! 

1  would  my  song  were  as  a  trumpet-sound 

To  nerve  you  and  speed,  and  weld  its  notes  with  power 
To  the  remembrance  of  your  perfect  hour; 
To  ring  again  and  again,  and  to  recall 

With  the  might  of  music,  all : 
The  prescience  proud,  the  morning  aspiration, 
But  most  the    muttered  vow,  the    inward  consecration! 


THE    OLIVE    BOUGH. 

A   SONG   FOR   THE   END.* 
I. 

A   S  when,  pursued  by  some  swift  Wind  and  bold 

Freed  from  the  hollow  dark  ^Eolian  hold, 
A  cloud  across  the  face  of  heaven  is  blown, 
And  sunshine  ceases  from  the  fields,  as  mown 
By  that  long  shadow  sweeping  o'er  the  wold, 
And  the  kind  world  turns  cold  — 
So  o'er  our  chosen  day 
Sails  now  a  shadowing  cloud  that  sweeps  the  sun  away. 

Our  chosen  day,  to  Memory  dedicate: 

To  Memory,  goddess  great, 
A  Proserpine  that  mid  the  dip  and  swell 
Of  her  wide  meadows  dim  with  asphodel 

Keeps  aye  one  circle  blest 
Lit  with  purpureal  light  unlike  the  rest : 


*  A  Memorial  Pcem,  read  to  the   Associate  Alumnae  of  the  New  York 
Normal  College,  June  3oth,  1883. 


OBERON. 

The  field  of  our  first  youth,  as  luminous 
Through  soberer  recollections,  as  the  place 
Where  looked  the  Dardan  on  his  father's  face 

In  the  land  nebulous. 

The  verdure  of  that  valley  is  Spring's  own 
Ampler  the  air — then,  limits  were  not  known 
To  us  that  breathed  it;  all  that  since  has  been 
Has  its  free  freshness  to  our  spirits  proved. 

Oh  circle  blest  indeed ! 

Dear,  dear  the  faces  that  therein  have  moved, — 
Sad,  sad  to  know  it  changelessly  decreed 
We  may  no  more  behold  them,  save  therein! 

II. 

It  was  men's  wont  of  old, 

Ere  spoken  was  the  Vale,  deep,  three-fold, 

From  the  full  heart  above  the  unanswering  lip 

Of  the  bronze  urn,  in  water  clear  to  dip 

A  branch,  and  sprinkle  all  with  pure  light  spray : 

Or  broken  bough  of  bay 
Or  olive  called  the  happy,  since  it  yields 

Fruit  in  unnumbered  fields: 
For  thus  they  deemed  the  influence  done  away 
Of  barren  Death,  that  else  a  spell  might  lay 
On  the  warm  living,  subtly  to  annul 
Their  powers,  and  strike  their  fortunes  cold  and  dull. 


OBERON. 

And  we,  who  seek  the  soul  in  each  old  sign, 

Pleased  if  we  may  divine 
Likeness  in  difference,  Proteus  in  disguise, 
And  gazing  backward  with  anointed  eyes 
Across  deep  ages  and  the  gulfs  of  race 

Know  yet  a  brother's  face, — 
We  hail,  in  this  the  antique  olive  gray, 

A  meaning  of  to-day. 

III. 

For  surely  this  pale  bough,  with  hoary  leaf, 
Is  symbol  of  one  still  thought  that  is  ours 

After  the  fire  of  grief: 

Thought  not  unhappy,  fruitful  thought,  that  showers 
A  lustral  rain  of  gentle  tears  and  pure, 
Breaking  the  spell  of  Death,  that  else  were  sure 

To  chain  our  living  powers, 
To  lock  Joy  fettered  in  the  frozen  breast: 
The  one  calm  thought,  the  peaceful  thought,   They  rest. 

They  rest:  brief  rest  was  theirs 
Ere  set  of  sun,  and  long  and  full  of  cares 
The  laboring  day.    Tis  now  as  night,  soft  night, 
Descending  and  enfolding,  whereon  bright 
Old  hours  of  toil  are  shining,  sanctified 
To  stars  that  light  and  guide! 

23 


OBERON. 

IV, 

Ah,  not  with  numbing  of  one  noble  hope 
Turn  we  from  facing  Death  inexorable, 

But  with  strong  souls  and  stable ! 

Deep  heaven  hath  surely  scope 
To  hold  each  earnest  hour,  a  jewel  new, 

A  star  to  light  and  guide : 

And  Toil,  that  shears  all  knotted  puzzles  through, 
A  stellar  sword  against  the  dark  descried 
Shall  burn,  like  Perseus'  blade  whereby  the  Gorgon  died 

Far,  far  the  Colchian  shores, 
Weary  the  mid-sea  laboring  at  the  oars, 
And  hard  to  pass  the  rough  Symplegades : 

But,  sail  and  storm-beat  spars 
And  wave-worn  rudder  pictured  all  in  stars, 
Shines  the  ship  Argo  still  above  the  Southern  seas! 


FLOWER  FANCIES. 


A  YELLOW  PANSY. 

nnO  the  wall  of  the  old  green  garden 

•*•       A  butterfly  quivering  came; 
His  wings  on  the  sombre  lichens 
Played  like  a  yellow  flame. 

He  looked  at  the  gray  geraniums, 
And  the  sleepy  four-o'-clocks ; 

He  looked  at  the  low  lanes  bordered 
With  the  glossy-growing  box. 

He  longed  for  the  peace  and  the  silence, 
And  the  shadows  that  lengthened  there, 

And  his  wee  wild  heart  was  weary 
Of  skimming  the  endless  air. 
25 


FLOWER  FANCIES. 

And  now  in  the  old  green  garden,- 
I  know  not  how  it  came, — 

A  single  pansy  is  blooming, 
Bright  as  a  yellow  flame. 

And  whenever  a  gay  gust  passes, 
It  quivers  as  if  with  pain, 

For  the  butterfly-soul  that  is  in  it 
Longs  for  the  winds  again! 


FLOWER  FANCIES. 


II. 
A  HOUSE  DIVIDED. 

T  N  some  past  sunny  season 
•*•     A  shoot  and  stock  were  wed, — 
Made  one  by  gardener's  cunning, — 
A  white  rose  and  a  red. 

And  now  the  rosy  brothers, 

All  wonder,  wonder  why 
Their  sister  flowers  are  fragile, 

And  strangely  pale,  and  shy. 

Those  flush  and  shake  with  laughter, 
These  blanch  and  thrill  with  fears, 

And  through  the  leaves  come  stealing, 
Slow-shed,  their  dewy  tears. 


FLOWER  FANCIES. 

III. 

A  SONG  OF  FAILURE. 

"\  1  TITH  green  swords  pointing  to  heaven, 
•       When  the  dawn  flushed,  glad  to  see, 
Like  three  gay  knights  in  the  garden 
Were  flaunting  the  Fleurs-de-lis. 

And  the  plumes  of  two  were  purple, 

The  color  of  hope  and  pride, 
And  the  last  was  snowy-crested, 

As  a  maiden  soul  should  ride. 

But  a  wind  from  the  west  brought  warning, 
And  at  noontide,  a  sound  of  power, 

We  heard  on  the  roofs  loud-marching 
The  steady  feet  of  the  shower. 

And  the  sharp  green  swords  were  broken, 

When  the  dusk  fell,  sad  to  see, 
And  low,  ah  low,  were  lying 

The  plumes  of  the  Fleurs-de-lis! 


FLOWER   FANCIES. 

IV. 
THE  DANDELIONS. 

T  T  PON  a  showery  night  and  still, 
^      Without  a  sound  of  warning, 
A  trooper  band  surprised  the  hill, 

And  held  it  in  the  morning. 
We  were  not  waked  by  bugle-notes, 

No  cheer  our  dreams  invaded, 
And  yet,  at  dawn,  their  yellow  coats 

On  the  green  slopes  paraded. 

We  careless  folk  the  deed  forgot; 

Till  one  day,  idly  walking, 
We  marked  upon  the  self-same  spot 

A  crowd  of  veterans  talking. 
They  shook  their  trembling  heads  and  gray 

With  pride  and  noiseless  laughter ; 
When,  well-a-day!  they  blew  away, 

And  ne'er  were  heard  of  after ! 


FLOWER  FANCIES. 

V. 

A   FAIRY   TALE. 


stands  by  the  wood-path  shaded 
A  meek  little  beggar  maid  ; 
Close  under  her  mantle  faded 
She  is  hidden  like  one  afraid. 

Yet  if  you  but  lifted  lightly 

That  mantle  of  russet  brown, 
She  would  spring  up  slender  and  sightly, 

In  a  smoke-blue  silken  gown. 

For  she  is  a  princess,  fated 
Disguised  in  the  wood  to  dwell, 

And  all  her  life  long  has  awaited 
The  touch  that  should  break  the  spell; 

And  the  Oak,  that  has  cast  around  her 

His  root  like  a  wrinkled  arm, 
Is  the  wild  old  wizard  that  bound  her  . 

Fast  with  his  cruel  charm. 
30 


FLOWER  FANCIES. 

Is  the  princess  worth  your  knowing? 

Then  haste,  for  the  spring  is  brief, 
And  find  the  Hepatica  growing, 

Hid  under  a  last  year's  leaf! 


LEPAGE'S  JOAN   OF  ARC. 

,  it  may  be,  the  soft  gray  skies  were  dear, 
The  clouds  above  in  crowds,  like  sheep  below, 
The  bending  of  each  kindly  wrinkled  tree ; 
Or  blossoms  at  the  birth-time  of  the  year, 
Or  lambs  unweaned,  or  water  in  still  flow, 

In  whose  brown  glass  a  girl  her  face  might  see. 

Such  days  are  gone,  and  strange  things  come  instead ; 
For  she  has  looked  on  other  faces  white, 

Pale  bloom  of  fear,  before  war's  whirlwind  blown ; 
Has  stooped,  ah  Heaven!  in  some  low  sheltering  shed 
To  tend  dark  wounds,  the  leaping  arrow's  bite, 

While  the  cold  death  that  hovered  seemed  her  own. 

And  in  her  hurt  heart,  o'er  some  grizzled  head, 
The  mother  that  shall  never  be  has  yearned; 

And  love's  fine  voice,  she  else  shall  never  hear, 
Came  to  her  as  the  call  of  saints  long  dead; 
And  straightway  all  the  passion  in  her  burned, 
One  altar-flame  that  hourly  waxes  clear. 

32 


OBERON. 

Hence  goes  she  ever  in  a  glimmering  dream, 
And  very  oft  will  sudden  stand  at  gaze, 

With  blue,  dim  eyes  that  still  not  seem  to  see: 
For  now  the  well-known  ways  with  visions  teem ; 
Unfelt  is  toil,  and  summer  one  green  daze, 
Till  that  the  king  be  crowned,  and  France  be  free ! 


33 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 


I. 


E  dusky  star-set  blue  of  Southern  night; 
Music  and  song  approaching  and  receding ; 
Sweet  sudden  laughter-showers  of  masquers  leading 
Across  the  moon-white  square  a  merry  flight, 
With  breeze-blown  torch  and  tossing  cresset  bright ; 
Gay  Love  and  glad  impetuous  Youth  unheeding, 
That  float  away  to  the  lute's  lovely  pleading 
Down  flowing  hours  smooth-silvered  with  delight. 


And  last,  a  figure  of  a  race  despised 

Shadow  in  light,  groan  echoing  to  the  laugh  ; 
Bent  haggard  Age,  with  uplift  shaken  staff, 
At  night's  noon  knocking,  knocking  at  the  door 

Of  a  gray,  silent  house,  of  that  he  prized 
Empty  forever  and  forever  more. 

34 


OBERON. 
II. 

Lo,  how  the  lips  that  Portia  pressed  but  late 
Against  the  opened  casket,  blessing  lead 
With  the  gold  beauty  of  her  bended  head, 

In  proud  abandonment  to  that  dear  fate 

It  gave  her  forth,  the  casket  fortunate, — 
Lo,  how  these  lips  forego  their  wreathed  red 
Above  the  scroll  that  speaks  his  danger  dread 

Who  holds  her  lover  in  sad  heart  and  great ! 

Now  in  her  spacious  soul  doth  Sorrow  meet 
Warm  Joy,  that,  generous,  gives  the  pale  one  place, 
And  in  the  tremulous  lines  of  her  fair  face 
An  exquisite  and  soft  remorse  appears 

That  Love,  of  right,  must  take  the  sovereign  seat, 
And  Friendship  lower  pass,  for  all  his  years. 


III. 


"  I  stand  for  law."     It  is  the  hour :  behold 
The  stem  storm-buffeted,  a  spear  grown  strong 
For  sternest  deed  in  wanton  winds  of  wrong. 
See  Shylock  from  his  sombre  garment's  fold 
The  scales  of  Justice  draw.     No  lavish  gold 

35 


OBERON. 

Shall  weigh  with  vengeance  now  ;  he  hears  loud  song 
And  triumphing  of  timbrels  from  the  long 
Dim  ranks  of  Israel's  branded  dead  untold. 

Oh,  not  alone  this  crooked  blade  unsheathes, 
Empowered  at  last,  one  wan  and  patient  Jew: 
Just  Judah  stands  for  law.    A  spirit  new 
Gives  answer  gracious  as  from  heaven  it  rained. 

A  powerful  angel   through  a  woman  breathes : 
"The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained." 


A   NOCTURNE   OF  RUBINSTEIN. 


T  I  THAT  now  remains,  what  now  remains  but  night  ? 
*  *       Night  hopeless,  since  the  moon  is  in  her  grave  ! 

Late  came  a  glorious  light 
In  one  wide  flood  on  spire  and  field  and  wave. 

It  found  a  flowing  way 
To  secret  places  where  the  dead  leaves  lay; 

It  won  the  half-hid  stream 
To  shy  remembrance  of  her  morning  gleam ; 

Then  on  the  sky's  sharp  shore 
Rolled  back,  a  fading  tide,  and  was  no  more. 
No  more  on  spire  and  ivied  window  bright! 

No  more  on  field  and  wave ! 

What  now  remains,  what  now  remains  but  night? 
Night  hopeless,  since  the  moon  is  in  her  grave ! 

37 


OBERON. 
II. 

Dumb  waits  the  dim,  broad  land, 
Like  one  who  hears,  yet  cannot  understand, 

Tidings  of  grief  to  come. 
The  woods  and  waters,  with  the  winds,  are  dumb. 

But  now  a  breeze  has  found 
Sorrowful  voice,  and  sobs  along  the  ground: 
"  Oh  the  lost  light,  the  last,  the  best  lost  light ! 

No  more  on  field  and  wave!" 

What  now  remains,  ivhat  now  remains  but  night? 
Night  hopeless,  since  the  moon  is  in  her  grave  / 


III. 


Hark,  how  the  wind  outswells! 
Tempting  the  wood's  dark  heart  till  he  rebels, 

And,  shaking  his  black  hair, 
Lifts  up  a  cry  of  passion  and  despair! 

The  groaning  branches  chafe 
Till  scarce  the  small,  hushed  singing-birds  are  safe, 

Tossed  rocking  in  the  nest, 
Like  gentle  memories  in  a  stormy  breast. 

38 


OBERON. 

A  shudder,  as  good  angels  passed  in  flight, 
Thrills  over  field  and  wave  ! 

W 'hat  now  remains,  what  now  remains  but  night  f 
Night  lawless,  while  the  moon  is  in  her  grave ! 


IV. 


There  falls  a  mighty  hush: 
And  forth  from  far  recesses  fern-scents  rush, 

Faint  as  a  waft  from  years 
Long  past ;  they  touch  in  heaven  the  springs  of  tears. 

In  great  drops,  slow  and  warm, 
Breaks  all  at  once  the  spirit  of  the  storm. 

What  now  remains,  what  now  remains  but  night? 
Night  grieving,  while  the  moon  is  in  her  grave  / 


V. 


Behold !  the  rain  is  over :  on  the  wave 

A  new,  a  flashing  light ! 

Lo,  she  arises  calm, 
The  pale,  the  patient  moon,  and  pours  like  balm 

Through  the  wet  wood's  wrecked  aisle 
Her  own  unutterably  tender  smile  ! 

39 


OBERON. 

There  is  no  calm  like  that  when  storm  is  done  ; 
There  is  no  pleasure  keen  as  pain's  release; 
There  is  no  joy  that  lies  so  deep  as  peace, 
No  peace  so  deep  as  that  by  struggle  won. 

Naught  now  remains,  naught  now  remains  but  night- 
Night  peaceful,  with  the  moon  on  field  and  wave ! 


AN    EPITAPH   WRITTEN    IN   THE    SAND, 


ON   A    BUTTERFLY   DROWNED   IN   THE   SEA. 


TT)OOR  Psyche,  to  a  Power  supernal  wed, 
•^        How  strong  a  fate  on  this  thy  frailness  fell! 
What  strange  ironic  word  shall  here  be  read  ? 
Dead  sign  of  immortality,  farewell! 


I  sigh  not  that  the  summer  fields  have  lost 
One  flying  flower:  who  counts  the  butterflies? 

I  sigh  not  that  thy  sunny  hour  was  crossed 
The  self-same  Shadow  surely  waits  mine  eyes. 


Thy  piteous  terror  of  the  appointed  end, 
For  this  I  sigh !    The  billow,  poised  above, 

Fell  on  thee  like  the  beast  that  leaps  to  rend ; 
Thou  couldst   not   know  thy  bridegroom    Death  was 
Love! 


OBERON. 

How  otherwise  thy  sister,  yea  the  Soul 

Bent  brooding  o'er  these  broken  wings  of  thine ! — 

Through  all  her  house  of  mystery  once  she  stole 
To  the  inmost  room,  and  found  a  Face  benign. 

Now  whirl  her  where  ye  must,  ye  waves  of  Law — 
Aye,  tear  her  vans,  her  painted  hopes,  apart ! 

She  cannot  fear,  remembering  what  she  saw  : 

Dark  bridegroom  Death,  she   knows  thee  Who  thou 
art! 


EMELIE. 

0  chaste  goddesse  of  the  modes  grene, 

1  ant  (thou  ivosf)  yet  of  thy  compagnie, 
A  tnayde,  and  love  hunting  and  venerie, 
And  for  to  walke  in  the  ivodes  wilde. 

— CHAUCER'S  "KNIGHTES  TALE. 

OHE  greets  the  lily  on  the  stalk; 

^     She  shakes  the  soft  hair  from  her  brows; 

She  wavers  down  the  garden  walk 

Beneath  the  bloomy  boughs. 
She  is  the  slenderest  of  maids; 

Her  fair  face  strikes  you  like  a  star; 
The  great  stone  tower  her  pathway  shades — 
The  prison  where  the  Princes  are. 
Across  the  dewy  pleasance  falls, 

All  in  the  clear  May  morning  light, 
The  shadow  of  those  evil  walls 
That  look  so  black  by  night. 

She  is  so  glad,  so  wild  a  thing, 

Her  heart  sings  like  the  lark  all  day; 

The  unhooded  falcon  on  the  wing 
Is  not  more  freely  gay. 

43 


OBERON. 

In  sun  and  wind  doth  she  rejoice, 
And  blithely  drinks  the  airy  blue, 

Yet  loves  the  solemn  pines  that  voice 
The  grief  she  never  knew. 

In  silence  of  the  woods  apart 

Her  sure  swift  step  the  Dryads  know; 
Full  oft  she  speeds  the  bounding  hart, 

And  draws  the  bending  bow. 
Fine  gleams  across  her  spirit  dart, 

And  never  living  soul,  saith  she, 
Could  make  her  choose  for  aye  to  lose 

Her  own  sweet  company. 

But  sometimes,  when  the  moon  is  bright, 

So  bright  it  almost  drowns  the  stars, 
She  thinks  how  some  have  lost  delight 

Behind  the  prison  bars. 
It  makes  her  sad  a  little  space, 

And  casts  a  shadow  on  her  look, 
As  branches  in  a  woody  place 

Do  flicker  on  a  brook. 

Last  night  she  had  a  dream  of  men, 
Dark  faces  strange  with  keen  desire; 


OBERON. 

She  heard  the  blaring  trumpet  then, 

She  saw  the  shields  strike  fire. 
The  pomp  of  plumes,  the  crack  of  spears, 

Beyond  her  happy  circle  lie : 
Thank  Heaven !    she  has  but  eighteen  years, 
And  loves  the  daisies  and  the  sky. 
And  yet  across  her  garden  falls, 

All  in  the  clear  May  morning  light, 
The  shadow  of  the  prison  walls 
That  look  so  black  by  night. 


I 


ELSINORE. 

T  is  strange  in  Elsinore 

Since  the  day  King  Hamlet  died. 


All  the  hearty  sports  of  yore, 

Sledge  and  skate,  are  laid  aside; 
Stilled  the  ancient  mirth  that  rang, 

Boisterous,  down  the  fire-lit  halls; 
They  forgot,  at  Yule,  to  hang 

Berried  holly  on  the  walls. 
Claudius  lets  the  mead  still  flow 

For  the  blue-eyed  thanes  that  love  it 
But  they  bend  their  brows  above  it, 
And  forever,  to  and  fro, 
'Round  the  board  dull  murmurs  go : 
"  It  is  strange  in  Elsinore 
Since  the  day  King  Hamlet  died.' 

And  a  swarm  of  courtiers  flit, 
New  in  slashed  and  satined  trim, 

With  their  freshly-fashioned  wit 
And  their  littleness  of  limb, — 
46 


OBERON. 

Flit  about  the  stairways  wide, 
Till  the  pale  Prince  Hamlet  smiles, 

As  he  walks,  at  twilight  tide, 

Through  the  galleries  and  the  aisles. 

For  to  him  the  castle  seems— 

This  old  castle,  Elsinore — 
Like  a  thing  built  up  of  dreams; 

And  the  king's  a  mask,  no  more; 
And  the  courtiers  seem  but  flights 

Of  the  painted  butterflies; 
And  the  arras,  wrought  with  fights, 

Grows  alive  before  his  eyes. 
Lo,  its  giant  shapes  of  Danes, 

As  without  a  wind  it  waves, 
Live  more  nobly  than  his  thanes, 

Sullen  carpers,  ale-fed  slaves! 

In  the  flickering  of  the  fires, 

Through  his  sleep  at  night  there   pass 
Gay  conceits  and  young  desires — 

Faces  out  of  memory's  glass, 
Fragments  of  the  actor's  art, 

Student's  pleasures,  college  broils, 
Poesies  that  caught  his  heart, 

Chances  with  the  fencing  foils; 

47 


OBERON. 

Then  he  listens  oftentimes 

With  his  boyhood's  simple  glee, 
To  dead  Yorick's  quips  and  rhymes, 

Leaning  on  his  father's  knee. 
To  that  mighty  hand  he  clings, 

Tender  love  that  stern  face  charms; 
All  at  once  the  casement  rings 

As  with  strength  of  angry  arms. 
From  the  couch  he  lifts  his  head, 

With  a  shudder  and  a  start; 
All  the  fires  are  embers  red, 

And  a  weight  is  on  his  heart. 


It  is  strange  in  Elsinore : 

Sure  some  marvel  cometh  soon ! 

Underneath  the  icy  moon 
Footsteps  pat  the  icy  floor ; 
Voices  haunt  the  midnights  bleak, 

When  the  wind  goes  singing  keen; 
And  the  hound,  once  kept  so  sleek, 

Slinks  and  whimpers  and  grows  lean 
And  the  shivering  sentinels, 

Timorous,  on  their  lonesome  round, 
Starting  count  the  swinging  bells, 

Starting  at  the  hollow  sound; 
48 


OBERON. 

And  the  pine-trees  chafe  and  roar, 
Though  the  snow  would  keep  them  still. 
In  the  state  there's  somewhat  ill ; 

It  is  strange  in  Elsinore. 


FIAMMETTA. 

TN  dream  I  passed  the  Gate  that  bears  in  black, 
"Here  lies  dead  Hope."    The  ineffable  gold  sky 
I  saw  between  the  pillars,  looking  back, 
And  one  young  cloud,  that  slowly  wandered  by 

As  though  it  wondered.     Downward,  all  was  dark, 
And  through  the  dark  I  heard  the  sad  souls  cry. 

Anon,  although  alone,  I  whispered,  "Hark! 

What  lifeless  laughter,  crackling  thorny-thin?" 
Then  grew  to  sight  what  first  I  failed  to  mark 

When  from  the  accustomed  light  I  entered  in, — 
A  group  that  pleasured  by  that  barren  wall 
As  Hell  some  delicate-blossomed  close  had  been : 

One,  gesturing,  spake;  the  rest  attended  all. 

"Declare,  ye  circled  shades,  your  home  on. earth! 
Declare  the  names  your  kindred  used  to  call!" 

I  cried,  much  marveling  at  their  mirthless  mirth. 
A  woman  wavered  to  the  space  half  lit 
By  that  lost  sky :  "  In  Florence  had  we  birth ; 

That  company  thou  seest,  who  chose  to  sit 
Ten  sunny  days,  a  fountain's  flight  beside, 
Scattering  the  rose,  and  weaving  tales  of  wit, 


OBERON. 

What  time  by  Arno  many  cursing  died. 

Yes,  Fiammetta  am  I.     Thou  tittle  flame 
(Thus  the  grave  Angel,  to  this  Gate  my  guide), 
With  what  vain  flickering  hast  thou  proved  thy  name ! 

Hast  given  to  no  chilled  spirit  atight  of  cheer ; 

Shalt  now  be  fed  and  kept  alight  with  shame, 
And  flicker  evermore" 

Then  did  appear 

Her  set  smile's  irony,  and  I  discerned 
Through  those  her  long  dark  languid  eyes,  right  clear 

How  far  below  her  soul  forever  burned. 

Her  sleeves  of  scarlet  hung  in  many  a  shred; 
Her  silver  chains  were  all  ta  tarnish  turned, 

And  crisped  were  the  laurels  on  her  head. 

"Alas!     why  earnest  thou  to  this  place  of  pain, — 
Why,  Pampinea,  Lauretta,  why?"  I  said, 

'Since  many  souls  that  bore  the  self-same  stain 
Tread  the  last  ledge  of  Purgatory  mount, 
And  trust,  made  pure,  sweet  Paradise  to  gain, 

Where  sings  the  grove,  where  flows  the  twofold  fount. 
Those,  angels  aid  on  fair  green  rustling  wings ; 
Why  then  are  these  thus  held  to  hard  account?" 

"Not  such,  O  questioner,  was  the  sin  that  brings 
Us  hither;  but  on  earth  so  weak  a  part 


OBERON. 

We  chose,  that  now  no  part  in  heavenly  things 

Is  granted  us,  nor  yet  will  Hell's  deep  heart 
Receive  us,  but  in  this  dim  borderland 
We  dwell,  and  follow  here  our  hollow  art 

Of  weaving  tales,  and  are  in  semblance  gay, 

Moved  by  a  might  we  never  may  withstand. 
To  our  own  dear  delights  we  turned  away; 

Forgot  the  city  full  of  tears,  forgot 

The  tolling  bells,  abandoned  even  to  pray ; 
But  couched  in  some  delectable  safe  spot 

Saw  breezy  olives  whiten  like  the  sea, 

And  babbled,  tools,  of  Love,  and  knew  him  not, 
Who  else  had  set  us  from  the  grim  Gate  free, 

Being  giant-strong  to  save  the  souls  of  men. 

But  Hate  came  to  us,  richly  masked,  and  we 
Esteemed  him  Love;  and  now  among  us  ten 

Sits  very  Hate.     The  life  we  prized  is  ours 

For  aye !     Yet  not  so  far,  I  deem,  this  den 
From  sound  of  suffering  as  our  fields  of  flowers." 

With  that  weird  smile,  she  turned  as  if  to  go. 
Loud  groaned  the  lurid  City,  the  sullen  fen 
Of  Styx,  and  all  that  grief  that  lies  below. 
'Farewell,"  I  sighed    "  Fiammetta!"     But  she,  "Not  so! 

What  life  is  thine  ?     Perchance  we  meet  again ! " 


HAROUN   AL  RASCHID. 

OLDEN  pride  and  fragrant  light 

Are  mine,  and  thereto  was  I  born; 
Throned  pomp  is  mine  of  right, 
Robes  bestarred,  or  like  the  morn; 
All  words  of  pearl  to  me  belong 
Singers  can  string  in  shining  song; 
Jewels,  as  perfect  song-notes  rare, 
Are  mine  own  to  waste  or  wear. 

Not  less  hath  this  right  hand  power 
Whereof  such  shows  are  but  the  flower,- 
Power  deep-rooted  in  the  earth 
That  shakes  to  royal  wrath  or  mirth. 

Yet,  on  many  a  deep-blue  night, 
Clad  and  shod  in  coarsest  wise, 
All  my  splendors  must  I  slight 
For  the  smile  of -the  common  skies: 
My  feet,  that  inlaid  courts  forego, 
Lanes  of  the  dusty  city  know; 

53 


OBERON. 

I  jest  among  the  bronzed  slaves, 
And  am  well  met  with  merry  knaves, 
And  quaft  poor  drink,  and  feel  it  glow; 
Steep  me  in  simple  weal  and  woe ; 
Yea,  learn  to  swim  in  those  dim  waves 
That,  my  palace  flight  before, 
Fawning  fall  with  plausive  roar. 

Hence  rumors  dear  shall  rise  and  rise 
Of  my  descending  and  disguise; 
Whereat  the  slave's  freed  soul  shall  sing 
A  Caliph  looked  into  his  eyes : 
How  is  he,  then,  so  mean  a  thing? 
By  torchlight  of  such  memories 
The  Caliph  in  himself  he  sees. 
Thus,  being  loved,  shall  Kve  my  name, 
Glowing  in  the  general  flame 
Of  the  people's  hearth  and  heart; 
While  men  lie  entombed  apart 
That  were  as  glorious  and  as  great, 
Forgot,  because  they  kept  their  state; 
Crumbling  with  the  crumbling  Past 
Into  a  dust  unnamed  at  last, 
Whence  their  gems  procured  shall  be 
By  some  wiser  soul  like  me. 


54 


A  RONDEL  OF  PARTING. 

U  leave  it  when  spring  blossoms  fall, 
The  old  house  where  the  roses  grew. 
You  gave  them  from  the  garden  wall, 
Your  roses,  faint  of  breath  and  hue, 
Whose  lovely  like  I  never  knew. 
Can  I  my  flock  of  memories  call 
To  leave  it  when  spring  blossoms  fall, 
The  old  house  where  the  roses  grew? 

No,  no,  they  flit  about  the  hall, 
And  beat  their  wings,  and  cry  for  you. 

Be  still:  no  more,  no  more  at  all, 
She  enters  now:  apart  we  two 

Shall  see  in  dreams,  when  late  leaves  fall, 
The  House  of  Youth,  where  roses  grew! 


£5 


A   CHRISTMAS   GREETING. 

OPEED,  my  Thought,  oh  speed,  my  Thought, 

Over  the  miles  of  snow  ! 
Never  before,  to  bear  to  her  door 

Love,  with  his  looks  aglow, 

Hadst  thou  so  far  to  go  ! 
Take  for  a  chime  bells  of  my  rhyme 

Over  the  miles  of  snow ! 

Stand,  my  Thought,  oh  stand,  my  Thought  ! 

Fled  are  the  miles  of  snow. 
Call,  O   Love !  to  her  window  above, 

In  the  voice  her  heart  must  know. 

Tis  the  time  of  mistletoe : 
Sing  in  the  night  to  her  window  alight, 

In  the  night  of  stars  and  snow ! 


AT    EASTER-TIDE. 

A  T  Easter-tide,  when  lilies  blow 
•*•          For  font  and  altar,  virgin  things, 
When  spikes  of  maple  scarlet  show, 
And  thin  clouds  white  as  angels'  wings, 
While  some  fresh  voice  the  message  flings 
"  The  Lord  is  risen  ! " —  from  long  ago 

Rise  purified  the  tombed  Springs, 
At  Easter-tide,  when  lilies  blow. 

Oh,  when  the  hallowed  hour  not  brings 
Those  gloried  ghosts,  whose  brows  we  know, 
Nor  I  o'er  change  and  distance  throw, 

In  midmost  prayer,  an  arm  that  clings, 

Ah  then,  the  deep-toned  bell  that  rings 
I  shall  not  hear,  nor  hear  whatso 

The  clear  young  voice  triumphant  sings, 
At  Easter-tide,  when  lilies   blow! 


TO-DAY. 

T  rOICE,  with  what  emulous  fire  thou  singest  free  hearts 

of  old  fashion, 

English  scorners  of  Spain,  sweeping  the  blue  sea-way, 
Sing  me   the   daring   of   life   for   life,   the   magnanimous 

passion 
Of  man  for  man  in  the  mean  populous  streets  of  To-day ! 

Hand,  with  what  color  and  power  thou  couldst  show,  in 

the  ring  hot-sanded, 

Brown  Bestiarius  holding  the  lean  tawn  tiger  at  bay, 
Paint  me  the  wrestle  of  Toil  with  the  wild-beast  Want, 

bare-handed ; 
Shadow  me  forth  a  soul  steadily  facing  To-day! 


A  CONSERVATIVE. 

"TT'OUR   Spring,"    he    said,  "I  hate:  now  blast,  now 
breeze ; 

All  weathers  mixt;  sharp  change,  confusion  dire. 

An  easy-chair,  a  vast  December  fire, 
A  fine  old  russet  folio — give  me  these ! 
Birds'  twitterings  at  the  dawn  my  ear  displease, 

My  dreams  disturb.     What  eye  could  ever  tire 

Of  orderly  white  ways?  could  e'er  desire 
The  foolish  haze  of  May?     Such  wishes  tease 
No  sober  mind  !  " 


But  none  the  less  did  break 
Green  from  the  glebe;  the  coned  chestnuts  gave 
Faint  fragrance  out;  the  robin's  breast  would  make 

A  flame  a-field ;  the  snow  he  could  not  save. 
And  Spring  on  Spring,  as  wave  in  strong  wave's  wake, 

Still  rolls  a  bloomy  billow  o'er  his  grave. 


A  RADICAL. 

T  T  E  never  feared  to  pry  the  stable  stone 

That  loving  lichens  clad  with  silvery  gray 
Torn  ivies  trembled  as  they  slipped  away, 
Their  empty  arms  now  loose  and  listless  blown. 
Then  turning,  with  that  ardor  all  his  own, 
"  Behold,  my  better  building ! "  he  would  say. 
"  I  rear  as  well  as  raze :  nor  by  decay 
Nor  foe  nor  fire  can  this  be  overthrown  ! " 

What  was  it  ?     Had  he  keener  sight  than  we  ? 
We  saw  the  ruin,  more  we  could  not  see ; 

His  blocks  were  jasper  air,  a  dream  his  plan. 
We  called  him,  Stormer  ;  ever  he  replied, 
'Unbroken  calm  within  my  breast  I  hide." 

Now  God  be  judge  betwixt  us  and  this  man ! 


A  RETROGRADE. 

WHAT,  you !  "  his  comrades  cried,  "  who  led  us  long 
Against  the  dense  arrays  of  dullards'  thought, 
You  quit  us  on  the  march,  so  quickly  caught 
By  such  a  strain,  a  simple  peasant-song? 
That  breath  of  old  brown  earth  is  strangely  strong, 
To  lure  you  to  the  fields  where  hinds  untaught 
Toil  slavish,  or  by  common  coinage  bought, 
Or  meanly  fearful  of  the  Master's  thong!" 

"  Yea,  dear  the  song, —  although  I  may  not  sing  ; 
Yea,  dear  the  soil, —  although  I  delve  it  not! 
I  fall  not  back,  but  peaceful  pass  beyond. 

For  freedom's  sake  your  hearts  are  fiery-hot, 
Yet  through  the  tramp  I  hear  your  fetters  ring ! 
Denial  is  the  straitest  kind  of  bond." 


61 


THE  RESOLVE. 


intimate,  malign,  benumbing  power 
I  cannot  name,  since  names  that  men  have  made 
For  shapes  of  evil  shine  beside  thy  shade, 
Who  from  the  seat  of  mine  own  soul  dost  lower,  — 
Darkness  itself,  that  doth  the  light  devour,  — 
I  feel  thine  urgency  upon  me  laid 
To  voice  despair!     Thou  shalt  not  be  obeyed; 
Thou  art  my  master  only  for  thine  hour  ! 

As  some  sad-eyed,  wan  woman  that  is  slave 

To  the  swart  Moor,  being  bid  her  lute  to  bring, 

Since  song  of  her  strange  land  her  lord  doth  crave, 
With  lip  a-tremble  dares  the  scourge's  sting, 

Refusing,  —  thy  brute  might  so  far  I   brave  : 

I  will  not  sing  what  thou  wouldst  have  me  sing  ! 


THE  NOONING. 

soft,  soft,  soft,  thou  slender-footed  maid, 
Cool-clad  and  fair,  along  the  sultry  street 
At  broad  blue  blinding  noon!     Light  fall  thy  feet 
As  e'er  the  wood-nymphs'  fell  while  Pan  was  laid 
At  mid-day  in  some  choice  Arcadian  shade 

Where     not  an  oak-leaf  laughed,  and  if  there  beat 
Loud  the  wild  heart  of  any  Dryad  fleet, 
Hearing,  she  girded  her  warm  side  afraid ! 
For  where,  against  yon  hourly-growing  wall, 
Dull-red,  the  ailantus-blossoms  brighter  show, 

A  little  while  his  weariness  forgot, 
Outstretching  in  a  chosen  shadow  small, 
With  hot  wet  forehead  on  his  lax  arm  low, 

Swart  Labor  sleeps,  without  whom  thou  wert  not ! 


THE  INHERITANCE. 

I. 

/"CONCEIVE  that  Perfect  Man,  to  whom  we  tend, 
^-x     The  great  Inheritor,  on  some  sheer  cape 

Between  the  morn  and  morn-bright  main :  a  shape 
Wherein  dead  racer  and  dead  wrestler  blend 
In  living  speed  and  power.     Dead  sages  send 
Their  wisdom's  wine,  matured  like  juice  of  grape, 
His  heart  to  strengthen.     Songs  his  lips  escape 
That  silenced  lips  of  long-dead  singers  lend. 

Enough  for  such,  such  immortality ! 

Well-paid,  the  press  of  trampling  cares!  the  pains 
That  bore  the  embodied  joy !  the  home-stretch  sobs  ! 

The  doers  passed :  their  best  of  deed  remains, 
And  still  through  many  a  mightier  artery 

To  feed  a  larger  life  their  life-blood  throbs. 

II. 

But  those,  whose  useless  breath  was  mixed  with  groans? 
Weak  flesh,  sick  spirits,  poor  dumb  dog-like  eyes 
That  could  not  read  the  star-signs  in  the  skies, 
64 


OBERON. 

Now  closed  forever,  sealed  beneath  their  stones  ! 

In  this  fair-colored  scheme  what  line  atones, — 
Old  hopes  being  calmly  cancelled  by  the  wise, — 
To  those  that  died  as  any  dull  brute  dies, 

And  propped  the  Future  but  with  bleaching  bones? 

O  Man  to  be,  if  perfect  thou  indeed, 

A  horror  thine  inheritance  appears, 

A  Titan  torture-fire  thy  rising  day ! 
For  ancient  ocean's  chant  to  thee  must  need 

Be  all  one  wail  of  creatures  cast  away, 
And  heaven's  own  rainbow-smile  a  thing  of  tears  ! 


LONG  SUMMER  DAYS. 

T     ONG  summer  days  are  my  desire : 
•*-*     Red  suns,  that  drop  as  globes  of  fire 
Behind  the  sloped  fields  white  with  weed: 
Warm  winds,  that  waft  the  wandering  seed 
With  silvery  plume,  now  low,  now  higher : 
Pale  clematis  that  o'er  the  brier 
Runs  with  frail  feet  that  never  tire 
Beside  rough  roads :  your  gifts  I  need, 
Long  summer  days! 

Yet  come  not,  O  profane  ones!  nigher, 
If  in  your  stars  be  severance  dire 
Of  dear  companionship  decreed: 
For  then,  alas !  ye  were   indeed, 
Too  far  outstripping  my  desire, 
Long  summer  days! 


66 


THE  GOLDENROD. 


\\  7  HEN  daisy-snow  abides  no  more 
•  •        In  fields  that  long  for  freshening  rains, 

The  goldenrod,  the  flower  you  wore, 
Leans  out  beside  the  lanes: 

Leans  softly,  with  the  look  of  one 

Who  has  a  tender  word  to  say; 
Then,  feeling  breezes  warm  with  sun, 

Turns  unconfessed  away. 

O'er  lichened  wall,  o'er  languid  brook, 

By  her  my  spirit  is  caressed, 
This  golden  girl,  whom  oft  you  took, 

Companion,  to  your  breast: 

Who  strives,  with  deftest  maiden  art, 
Your  moods  and  manners  to  repeat, 

As  stirred  her  still  the  gentle  heart 
She  felt  so  often  beat. 

67 


OBERON. 

Forgive  her,  dear,  for  friendship's  sake, 
Though  all  too  close  she  feign  your  ways! 

Since  now  the  sight  of  her  can  make, 
In  sad  and  sunless  days, 

On  all  the  world  a  sudden  shine, 
A  flood  of  sunlight  glad  and  mild, 

Till  song,  in  these  still  thoughts  of  mine, 
Breaks  forth  as  though  you  smiled  ! 


HEY  ROBIN,  JOLLY  ROBIN  ! 

Twelfth  Night. 

T3  OBIN  of  the  valiant  air 
•••^     And  the  ebon  head, 
Proud,  perhaps,  that  thou  dost  bear 
Breast  so  brave  a  red: 

Robin  of  the  rounded  throat, 

Straight  of  back  and  slim, 
Robin  sending  fearless  note 

Through  the  dawn-haze  dim  : 

Through  this  haze  of  spring-time  dawn, 

Tell  me,  hast  thou  seen, — 
From  thy  cool  untrodden  lawn, 

Shimmering  silver-green, 

Where  the  broken  blossoms  lie, 

Colored  like  a  shell, — 
Seen  the  maid  I'd  meet  pass  by? 

Dearest  Robin,  tell! 
69 


OBERON. 

How  shouldst  thou  my  true-love  know 

From  another  one? 
By  her  pure  cheek's  welcoming  glow, 
Thee  to  look  upon! 

By  her  eyes,  that  at  thy  call 
Straightway  would  declare 
Sister  is  her  soul  to  all 
Fearless  things  and   fair  ! 

Gone,  with  such  a  dashing  dart, 

Such  a  whistle  clear? 
What  canst  mean?  —  Ah,  gallant  heart, 

Bless  thee  !     She  is  here. 


THE  UNDERSONG. 

*l  \T  HEN  restful  at  the  farmhouse  we  abode, 

One  August  mild  whose  memory  lingers  long, 
Not  always  did  we  note  the  happy  song 
Of  that  brown  brook  that  through  the  pastures  flowed, 
Whose  haunt  the  field-flowers  tall  would  hide,  yet  showed; 
For  farmstead  sounds  full  oft  would  do  it  wrong, 
Or  speech,  or  laughter  light,  or  wheels  along 
The  shaded  windings  of  the  elmy  road. 

Yet  ever  it  flowed  and  sang  to  the  warm  day, 

As  to  a  drowsy  child  old  running  rhymes, 

And  ever  at  a  pause  was  in  the  ear, 
Low-whispering  where  the  goldenrod  was  gay, 

The  assuring  utterance  of  all  still  times. 

So  is  it  with  the  voice  the  heart  holds  dear. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  YEAR. 

GENTLE  Year,  I'll  not  entreat  thee  stay, 

Since  now  thy  face  is  set  to  some  far  land 
Not  named  of  men,  untrod,  a  shadow-strand! 
And  those  most  powerful  prayers  that  lips  could  pray 
Would  not  obtain  thy  tarrying  for  a  day. 
Yet,  gliding  from  us  with  the  sliding  sand, 
Thou  shalt  not  pass  till  I  have  kissed  the  hand 
That  gave  me  joys,  and  took  but  time  away. 

Can  Love,  that  of  the  soul's  delight  is  born, 
Being  matched  in  stature  to  the  soul,  increase? 
Not  so:  but  Memory,  leaning  at  his  side, 

Waxes  with  every  rosy  draught  of  morn, 
And  gathers  to  her  every  moon's  full  peace, 

And  dreaming  on  dark  seas  of  summer,  grows  deep-eyed, 


A  CHARMED  CUP. 

A   S  drinking-cups  whereof  old  rhymers  tell, 
*"*•     In  twilight  ages  all  with  wonders  rife, 
Were  given,  by  mystic  herb  and  midnight  spell, 
The  gift  to  summon  Love — to  summon  Life! — 

So  this  for  thee,  lest  aught  should  come  between, 
This  little  clasped  cup,  and  charm  of  wine 

Love  singing  trod  with  feet  of  heavenly  sheen, 
I  set  away:  it  shall  be  always  thine. 

Thine  to  restore,  with  magic  strong  and  strange, 
The  might  of  meeting  eyes  and  near,  warm  breath; 

That  there  shall  be  no  Time  nor  any  Change, 
Nor  any  room  for  such  a  thing  as  Death  ! 


73 


IN  HUSH  OF  NIGHT. 

'IIT'HEN  nightfall  on  the  Dardan  plain 

Brings  truce,  and  stilled  are  sounds  of  Mars.. 
And  mournful,  mournful  moans  the  main, 
And  Simois'  ripples  take  the  stars, — 

When  thoughts  of  home  float  o'er  the  sea 

From  fields  afar,  and  heroes'  breasts, 
At  last  from  brazen  corselet  free, 

Soft-heaving  take  those  gentle  guests, — 

Ah  then,  who  sinks  to  sleep  away, 

In  tent,  or  galley  scarlet-prowed, 
Nor  doubts  some  deed  he  did  to-day? 

That  taunt  was  harsh,  that  boast  was  loud. 

How  failed  his  eyes  to  recognize 

The  god  behind  the  foeman  bold? 
Why  gave  he,  under  friendship's  guise, 

That  mail  of  brass  for  mail  of  gold? 

74 


OBERON. 

Oh,  is  there  one,  of  either  host, 

Who  never,  sighing,  weighs  his  cause 

At  this  grave  hour,  nor  feels  a  ghost, 
Cool-handed,  bid  his  courage  pause? 

Two:   dog-like  droops  the  dreaming  head 

Of  mean  Thersites  evil-eyed; 
And  Paris  on  his  broidered  bed 

Sleeps  well  at  swan-white  Helen's  side. 

No  scruple  sharp  the  selfist  finds; 

The  wrangler  no  remorses  fret: 
The  loved  of  gods  in  lofty  minds 

Have  room  to  house  a  high  regret. 


75 


THE  WAYFARERS. 


"\7OUNG  man  with  the  keen  blue  eyes, 
*       Clear  and  bold  ! 

Why,  as  thou  dost  fare, 

With  so  searching  air, 
Scannest  thou  each  face  thou  dost  behold, 
Each  small  flower,  faint-colored  like  the  skies, 
Growing  by  the  way?     Why  gazest  thou 

O'er  the  round  hill's  brow? 


Ah,  in  every  bearded  face, 

Looking  deep, 
My  heart's  friend  seek  I ! 
In  each  maiden  shy 

My  heart's  dearest,  dreamed  upon  in  sleep; 
And  in  each  fair  flower  a  hope  I  trace; 
And  the  hill  may  hide  the  flashing  sea 
That  doth  call  to  me ! " 
76 


OBERON. 

II. 

Old  man  with  the  pale  blue  eyes, 
Mild  and  clear! 

Why,  as  thou  dost  fare, 

With  that  pondering  air 
Into  passing  faces  dost  thou  peer? 
Why  dost  pause,  where  dim  like  autumn  skies 
Starry  asters  grow?     Why  gazest  thou 

O'er  the  round  hill's  brow? 

"Ah,  from  each  gray-bearded  face 

Would  I  know 
What  that  heart  hath  found; 
And  in  youths  that  bound 
See  a  youth  who  vanished  long  ago! 
In  each  flower  a  memory  can  I  trace; 
O'er  the  hill  the  green,  still  place  may  be 
That  doth  wait  for  me!" 


77 


AN  INVOCATION  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

S~\    BROTHERHOOD,    with    bay-crowned    brows    un 
daunted, 

Who  passed  serene  along  our  crowded  ways, 
Speak  with  us  still!     For  we  like  Saul  are  haunted: 

Harp  sullen  spirits  from  these  later  days ! 

Whate'er  high  hope  ye  had  for  man  your  brother, 
Breathe  it,  nor  leave  him  like  a  prisoned  slave 

To  stare  through  bars  upon  a  sight  no  other 
Than  clouded  skies  that  lighten  on  a  grave. 

In  these  still  alcoves  give  us  gentle  meeting, 
From  dusky  shelves  kind  arms  about  us  fold, 

Till  the  New  Age  shall  feel  her  chilled  heart  beating 
Restfully  on  the  warm  heart  of  the  Old. 

Till  we  shall  hear  your  voices  mild  and  winning 
Steal  through  our  doubt  and  discord,  as  outswells 

At  fiercest  noon,  above  a  city's  dinning, 
The  chiming  music  of  cathedral  bells : 
78 


OBERON. 

Music  that  lifts  the  thought  from  trodden  places 
And  coarse  confusions  that  around  us  lie, 

Up  to  the  calm  of  high  cloud-silvered  spaces, 

Where  the  tall  spire  points  through  the  soundless  sky. 


79 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


I. 


"  T  T  IGH  as  my  heart ! "  Orlando  answered  thus, 

In  careless  Arden,  Arden  green  to-day, 
Parrying  with  gallant  wit  the  question  gay 
Touching  his  lady's  stature.     When  of  us 
Lips  yet  to  be,  in  years  lying  yet  before, 
Make  question  of  the  stature  of  thy  fame, 
The  words  that  we  shall  answer  are  the  same: 
High  as  our  hearts  he  stood. 

What  man  would  more? 


Wide-sunned  with  love  thy  last  late  winter  days, 

Whose  blue  mild  morns  were  memories  of  the  spring. 
To  thee  spring  voices  had  not  ceased  to  sing, 
Nor  ever  closed  to  thee  fresh  woodland  ways 
Where  underneath  old  leaves  the  violets  are, 
And,  shy  as  boyhood's  dream,  spring  beauties  like  a  star. 

80 


OBERON. 

II. 

Thou  wast  not  robbed  of  wonder  when  youth  fled, 
But  still  the  bud  had  promise  to  thine  eyes, 
And  beauty  was  not  sundered  from  surprise, 

And  reverent,  as  reverend,  was  thy  head. 

Thy  life  was  music,  and  thou  mad'st  it  ours. 

Not  thine,  crude  scorn  of  gentle  household  things; 
And  yet  thy  spirit  had  the  sea-bird's  wings, 

Nor  rested  long  among  the  chestnut-flowers. 

Spain's  coast  of  charm,  and  all  the  North  Sea's  cold 
Thou  knewest,  and  thou  knewest  the  soul  of  eld, 
And  dusty  scroll  and  volume  we  beheld 

To  gold  transmuted— not  to  hard-wrought  gold, 

But  that  clear  shining  of  the  eastern  air, 

When  Helios  rising  shakes  the  splendor  of  his  hair. 


81 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

—  With  that  Sir  Gawain  departed,  joyful  and  sorrow 
ful:  joyful  becaiise  of  what  Merlin  had  assured  him 
should  happen  to  him;  and  sorrowful,  that  Merlin  had 
thus  been  lost. 

MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 


Merlin,  shut  in  the  still  wood  of  Death, 
Yet  living!  who  through  forest-calm  dost  roll 

A  voice  of  guidance  to  the  venturous  soul 
As  when  thou  hadst  the  common  blood  and  breath: 
Far  for  thy  praise  my  Fancy  wandereth 

Through  all  wide  lands,  and  fain  would  spoil  the  whole 

To  heap  crown-jewels  at  thine  oak-tree's  bole. 
"  Seek  no  bright  words  !  "  a  wiser  spirit  saith. 
"  Not  such  the  sage  can  please  :   no  seeker  he  ! 

The  world  came  to  him  in  his  tower,  and  told 
Secrets  of  might,  unforced  and  loving-free; 

Nor  held  he  Fancy's  choice  true  gems  and  gold. 
Kneel  but  and  say  : 

One  grateful  here  behold! 
Of  mine  own  treasure  thou  didst  give  the  key!" 


ON  FIRST  READING  LANDOR'S  HELLENICS. 

^I  ^WO  sauntering,  hand  in  hand,  one  happy  day, 
Along  a  pleasant  path  that  neither  knew, 

Came,  glad  and  startled,  on  the  sudden  blue, 
With  sails  unclouded,  of  a  sunny  bay, 
And  hollowing  toward  the  wave  a  meadow,  gray 

With  honey-giving  growths  thick-spread  as  dew. 

There  goatskin-girt,  with  limbs  like  bronze  in  hue, 
Free-bathed  in  sun  and  wind,  a  shepherd  lay, 

Asleep,  his  reed  pipe  fallen  by  his  knee ; 

And  late,  it  seemed,  a  song  had  left  his  lips. 

W7e  heard  but  lapping  ripple,  prattling  bee 
Above  the  thyme's  dim-purple,  downy  tips; 

Beyond,  once  beat  by  oars  of  beaked  ships, 

Far  outward  swept  the  calm,  the  storied  sea. 


BACH'S  ST.  MATTHEW  PASSION  MUSIC. 

T  T  ARK !  on  this  wind  eternal  Voices  ride. 

•*•          Oh,  hark!  out  of  the  deep  mysterious  East 

The  Voices  of  Disciple  and  High-Priest, 
Betrayer,  and  Denier,  and  Denied: 
Strong  prayers  at  midnight  by  a  streamlet-side, 

And  broken  sayings  at  a  solemn  feast; 

A  sea-like  sound:  "Barabbas  be  released!" 
A  fiercer  wave :  "  Let  Him  be  crucified ! " 

And  now  arise  new  voices  blent  with  these, 
In  sober  chorals,  linked  like  the  beads 
Of  some  brown  chaplet;  breathing  pieties 

Of  faithful  souls  that  sifted  not  the  creeds. 

The  names  of  those  that  sang  the  loiterer  reads 
In  God's  green  acre,  spired  with  poplar-trees. 


84 


SALVINI'S  OTHELLO. 

"X  TOT  most  the  crouching  spring,  the  forest-roar, 
*•  ^      The  lion-pace,  the  lion-power  express ; 

By  such  strong  signs  as  these  he  conquers  less 
Than  in  that  pulse-beat's  time,  when,  wounded  sore, 
He  gathers  all  himself,  and  stands  once  more 

Unshaken  in  his  sombre  kingliness, 

Too  great  the  deadly  keenness  to  confess 
Of  traitor  steel  sent  clean  to  the  heart's  core: 
Sighs  lago,  bent  in  soothing  half-embrace, 
"A  little  this  hath  dashed  your  mood,  I  wot!" 
Then,  majesty  at  full  in  eyes  and  face, 

Large  soul  to  the  lower's  level  stooping  not, 
Dark  head  thrown  back,  with  that  grand  Southern  grace 

He  waves  his  eloquent  hands — "Nay,  not  a  jot!" 


ELLEN  TERRY'S  BEATRICE. 

A     WIND  of  spring  that  whirls  the  feigned  snows 
*^>       Of  blossom-petals  in  the  face,  and  flees  : 

Elusive,  made  of  mirthful  mockeries, 
Yet  tender  with  the  prescience  of  the  rose; 
A  strain  desired,  that  through  the  memory  goes, 

Too  subtle-slender  for  the  voice  to  seize; 

A  flame  dissembled,  only  lit  to  tease, 
Whose  touch  were  half  a  kiss,  if  one  but  knows. 

She  shows  by  Leonato's  dove-like  daughter 
A  falcon,  by  a  prince  to  be  possessed, 

Gay-graced  with  bells  that  ever  chiming  are; 
In  azure  of  the  bright  Sicilian  water, 
A  billow  that  has  rapt  into  its  breast 
The  swayed  reflection  of  a  dancing  star! 


SONGS  OF  A  SEMITE." 


A   RMED  soul  that  ridest  through  a  land  of  peace, 

Her  borders  filled  with  finest  of  the  wheat, 
Her  children  reaping,  where  with  weary  feet 

Sad  sowers  trod  who  taste  not  the  increase: 

We  hear  thy  trump,  whose  echo  shall  not  cease, 
In  hush  of  night  resounding,  while  we  meet 
Around  unthreatened  fires,  but  pressing  fleet 

Thou  passest,  proud,  to  claim  thy  kin's  release; 

Thy  trump,  that  doth  arraign  the  entombed  Past, 
Till  shapes  that  march  as  if  with  martyr-psalm 
In  glow  and  gloom  of  kindly  hearths  we  see : 

And  now  to  present  war  a  keener  blast 

Calls  loud,  and  spirits  late  content  and  calm 
Spring  up  enforced,  and  spur  to  follow  thee ! 

II. 

To  war?     What  words  are  mine,  that  do  thee  wrong! 
Whose  suit  is  powerful  Peace,  resplendent-shod, 
Fair  on  the  mountains ;  who  wouldst  set  the  rod 
87 


OBERON. 

Borne  as  a  staff  o'er  stony  ways  and  long 
Yet  withered  not,  to  strike  new  root  and  strong 
Deep  in  its  nursing  earth.     Oh,  there  the  clod 
Were  virtue,  and  the  sun  the  smile  of  God, 
And  buds  should  break  to  bloom,  as  maids  to  song! 

Aye,  would  for  thee  that, — even  as  the  dove 

Whose  silver  wings  have  o'er  waste  places  passed, 
When  in  the  lonely  west  the  evening  burns, 

Her  unforgetful  breast  a-throb  with  love, 

To  her  own  pillared  porch  of  flight  returns, — 
On  the  old  hills  might  Israel  rest  at  last ! 


ON  READING  THE  POEMS  OF  EDITH 
THOMAS. 

Then  will  /,  tasting,  say — 

This  is  arbutus1  gift, 
Reached  from  the  leafy  drift 

On  a  glistening  April  day. 

WILD  HONEY. 

A  RBUTUS'  gift,  in  very  truth,  I  deem 

These  gathered,  golden  songs  that  keep  the  gleam 
Of  early  sunlight  through  the  awakened  wood; 
The  vernal  spirits  of  the  sisterhood 
There  cloistered,  rosy-cool  and  vestal- shy, 
Are  in  these  lucent  cells  enforced  to  lie; 
Here  bides  the  baffling  fragrance,  here  the  charm. 
Henceforth  I  fear  not  frosty  Hiems'  harm, 
Though  all  his  bluff  besiegers  he  should  bring; 
Behold,  my  bookshelf  lodges  Ver,  the  Spring! 


POSIES. 

— Is  this  .  .  .  the  posy  of  a  ring? 

HAMLET. 

I. 
FRIENDSHIP. 

T   WERE  not  worth  you,  could  I  long  for  you; 

But  should  you  come,  you  would  find  me  ready. 
The  lamp  is  lighted,  the  flame  is  steady: 
Over  the  strait  I  toss  this  song  for  you! 

II. 
A  ROSE. 

npOO-PERFECT  Rose,  thy  heavy  breath  has  power 

**•       To  wake  a  dim,  an  unexplained  regret: 
Art  body  to  the  soul  of  some  deep  hour 
That  all  my  seasons  have  not  yielded  yet? 

But  if  it  be  so — Hour,  too-perfect  Hour, 

Ah,  blow  not  full,  though  all  the  yearning  days 

Should  tremble  bud- like,  since  the  wind  must  shower 
Thine  unreturning  grace  along  the  ways! 

9o 


OBERON. 

III. 
WISTARIA. 

— lumenque  juventce 
Purpureum — 

SMILE  of  spring,  that  o'er  the  worn  gray  brow 
Of  some  old  many-memoried  house  dost  run, 
The  very  light  of  purple  Youth  art  thou 
The  laughing  goddess  shed  upon  her  son ! 

IV. 
ON  A  FLY-LEAF. 

T  T  is  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark ! " 

O  poet-heart,  enamored  of  the  Past, 
That  Romeo  with  the  ruby  in  his  ear! 
No  longer  sicken  to  detain  the  dark: 

Thine  eyes  along  the  clear  horizon  cast: 
Behold,  a  fresh  imperious  dawn  is  here! 


AN  IVORY  MINIATURE. 

"\  1  7HEN  State  Street  homes  were  stately  still 
When  out  of  town  was  Murray  Hill; 

In  late-deceased  "old  times" 
Of  vast,  embowering  bonnet-shapes, 
And  creamy-crinkled  Canton  crapes, 

And  florid  annual-rhymes, 

He  owned  a  small  suburban  seat 
Where  now  you  see  a  modern  street, 

A  monochrome  of  brown ; 
The  sad  "brown-brown"  of  Dante's  dreams, 
A  twilight  turned  to  stone,  that  seems 

To  weight  our  city  down. 

Through  leafy  chestnuts  whitely  showed 
The  pillared  front  of  his  abode: 

A  garden  girt  it  'round, 
Where  pungent  box  did  trim  enclose 
The  marigold  and  cabbage-rose, 

And  "pi'ny"  heavy-crowned. 
92 


OBERON. 

Yea,  whatso  sweets,  the  changing  year's, 
He  most  affected.     Gone:  but  here's 

His  face  who  loved  them  so. 
Old  eyes  like  sherry,  warm  and  mild; 
A  cheek  clear-hued  as  cheek  of  child; 

Sleek  head,  a  sphere  of  snow. 

His  mouth  was  pious,  and  his  nose 
Patrician;  with  which  mould  there  goes 

A  disaffected  view. 
In  those  sublime,  be-oratored, 
Spread-eagle  days,  his  soul  deplored 

So  much  red-white-and-blue ! 

In  umber  ink,  with  S's  long, 

He  left  behind  him  censure  strong 

In  stiffest  phrases  clothed ; 
But  Time — a  pleasant  jest  enough! — 
Has  turned  the  tory  leaves  to  buff, 

The  liberal  hue  he  loathed. 

Of  many  a  gentle  deed  he  made 
Brief  simple  record.     Never  fade 

Those  everlasting-flowers 
That  spring  up  wild  by  good  men's  walks; 
Opinions  wither  on  their  stalks, 

And  sere  grow  Fashion's  bowers. 


OBERON. 

Erect,  be-frilled,  in  neckcloth  tall, 
His  semblance  sits,  removed  from  all 

Our  needs  and  noises  new; 
Released  from  all  the  rent  we  pay 
As  tenants  of  the  large  To-day, 

Cool,  in  a  background  blue. 

And  he,  beneath  a  cherub  chipped, 
Plump,  squamous-pinioned,  pouting-lipped, 

Sleeps  calm  where  Trinity 
Points  finger  dark  to  clouds  that  fleet; 
A  warning,  seen  from  surging  street, 

A  welcome,  seen  from  sea. 

There  fall,  ghosts  glorified  of  tears 
Shed  for  the  dead  in  buried  years, 

The  silver  notes  of  chimes; 
And  there,  with  not  unreverent  hand 
Though  light,  I  lay  this  "greene  garland,' 

This  woven  wreath  of  rhymes. 


94 


TO   MY  GOLDFISH. 

MY  gorgeous-mailed  knight, 
Whom  a  finger-tip  can  fright! 
At  my  touch  upstarting  shy, 
With  a  silvery-rolling  eye, 
Leaping,  winding,  sudden  splashing, 
This  way  dashing,  that  way  flashing ! 
I'll  not  harm  thee ;   lie  thou  still; 
Heave  not  fin  nor  glittering  gill; 
Globe-kept  captive,  thou  shalt  find 
Fellow-feeling  makes  me  kind. 

I,  too,  own  a  hermit's  heart, 
Swift  at  aught  unknown  to  start: 
And  I,  too,  am  walled  about, 
Though  the  sunbeams  find  me  out. 
Scarce  I  see  the  stirring  world 
More  than  thou  the  brook  breeze-curled, 
But  must  make,  like  thee,  delight 
From  a  few  small  pebbles  white; 
Trifles,  that  may  fancy  bear 
To  some  rippled  pleasance  rare. 

95 


OBERON. 

Let  thy  thought,  free-swimming,  make 
This,  thy  globe,  a  spring-fed  lake, 
And  with  water  crystal-bright 
I'll  refresh  it  morn  and  night, 
That  such  dreams  the  easier  be: 
Deal,  sweet  Fates  !  as  well  by  me. 


"AS  THE  CROW  FLIES." 

T3UCCANEER  with  blackest  sails, 
•^     Steering  home  by  compass  true, 
Now  that  all  the  rich  West  pales 
From  its  ingot-hue ! 

Would  that  compass  in  thy  breast 
Thou  couldst  lend,  for  guiding  me 

Where  my  Hope  hath  made  her  nest — 
In  how  far  a  tree ! 

Swerving  not,  nor  stooping  low, 
To  that  dear,  that  distant  mark 

Could  I  undiverted  go, 
What  were  coming  dark  ? 

— Careless  of  the  twilight  ground, 
O'er  the  wood  and  o'er  the  stream 

Still  he  sails,  with  hollow  sound 
Strange,  as  in  a  dream! 


SPRIGS  O'  HEATHER. 

i. 

TO    COMIN'    YEARS. 

T  TERE'S  awa'  wi'  bairnies'  fears! 

Here's  a  health  to  comin'  years! 
They  maun  bring  me  smiles  wi'  tears; 

Smiles  are  wisdom's  wealth. 
Sae  I'll  sing  it  in  their  ears : 
"  I'm  na  scared  o'  ye,  my  dears ! 
To  ye  canty  comin'  years 
Here's  a  hearty  health! 

"Just  a  line  o'  lasses  ye, 
Steppin'  shy,  but  blinkin'  slee ; 
There's  a  spark  in  ilk  sweet  e'e 

To  my  soul  declares 
Frowns  o'  yours  are  light  to  dree ; 
Ilka  lip  so  bright  o'  blee 
Keeps  in  guard  a  kiss  to  gie 
To  the  lad  that  dares !  " 
98 


OBERON. 

II. 
WONDERFU'    SLEE. 

JAMIE  MACPHERSON!   Ye're  sic  a  slee  person! 

I  kenned  ye  for  keen  ever  sin'  we  were  wee ; 
Ye  hae  stown  my  ain  mither,  hae  stown  my  ain   brither, 
Hae  stown  my  ain  sister  awa'  frae  me ! 

At  kirk  door  they  see'd  ye — sic  follies,  I  rede  ye, 
Are  na  for  the  likes  o'  that  Sabbath-day  place ; 

Ye  leukit  at  me  wi'  the  tear  in  your  e'e, 

And  ye  staw  them  awa'  wi'  your  lang  droopit  face. 

Sic  knittin'  o'  brows,  mon,  sic  shakin'  o'  pows,  mon, 
Sic  praisin'  of  ye,  mon,  for  douce  and  genteel ! 

Mither  canna  get  sleep  for  the  thocht  o'  your  sheep, 
Nor  Meg  for  the  thocht  o'  the  dool  ye  maun  feel. 

E'en  dumb  dozin'  Collie  has  heard  o'  my  folly, 
And  leuks  at  me  sidelang  whenever  I  pass, 

His  e'e  sadly  blinkin',  and  sighs  while  down-sinkin', 
As  though  he  were  thinkin',  "  Puir  daft  feckless  lass!" 

Naught  for  it  but  roamin'  late  into  the  gloamin' 
(Sin'  now  it's  na  canty  beside  the  hearthstane), 

99 


OBERON. 

When  the  pale  primsie  moon  she  is  walkin'  aboon, 
But  nae  lass  below  her  gaes  roamin'  alane  ! 

A  lad  I  hae  seen,  he  has  witchin'  black  e'en — 
O  Jamie  MacPherson,  ye're  wonderfu'  slee  ! 

Ye  hae  stown  my  ain   mither,  hae  stown   my  ain   brither, 
But  Robin  has  stown  my  ain  heart  frae  me! 

III. 

MY  AIN,  AIN  LASS. 

T  'M  fain  for  toys  o'  Fortune  whyles ; 

I  hae  no  hate  for  ranks  and  styles; 
But  lairdship  o'  the  braw  blue  isles 

I'd  e'en  let  pass 
For  ane  o'  her  fine  tremblin'  smiles — 

My  ain,  ain  lass ! 

I  aiblins  dream  on  days  to  be, 
An'  feel  my  heart  leap  out  a  wee ; 
But  friendly  Fate  can  grant  nae  fee 

Could  e'er  surpass 
Her  e'en,  sae   dark  wi'  luve  to  me — 

My  ain,  ain  lass ! 


OBERON. 

Whyles,  gray  and  ghaistly,  by  me  stand 
Auld  memories  in  an  eerie  band; 
But  swift  as  prints  on  slidin'  sand 

Sic  phantoms  pa&s, 
If  sae  I  baud  her  warm,  warm  hand, 

My  ain,  ain  lass ! 

The  past  she  sweetens  through  and  through, 
An',  far  as  heaven,  the  future  too; 
For,  surely,  as  her  dear  soul's  due, 

They'll  let  me  pass  ! 
Wi'out  me  there  what  wad  she  do, 

My  ain,  ain  lass  ? 


EVENING  PRIMROSES. 

"\  "\  7HILE  gray  was  the  summer  evening 

*  *       Hast  never  a  small  sprite  seen 
Lighting  the  fragrant  torches 

For  the  feast  of  the  Fairy  Queen? 


The  buds  on  the  primrose-bushes 
Upspring  into  yellow  light 

But  ever  the  wee  deft  spirit 
Escapes  my  bewildered  sight. 

Yet  oft,  through  the  dusky  garden, 
A  dainty  white  moth  will  fly, 

Or,  pink  as  a  pink  rose-petal, 
One  lightly  will  waver  by. 

Perhaps  'tis  the  shape  he  comes  in, 

Perhaps  it  is  he  indeed, 
Sir  Moth,  or  the  merry  Cobweo, 

Or  the  whimsical  Mustard-seed! 


A  HUMMING-BIRD. 

*T^WELVE  daughters  of  the  Trumpet-vine 
Spread  wide  their  scarlet  silks  to-day. 
Sir  Summer  Breeze,  my  gossip  fine, 
Can  you  the  reason  say? 

Oh  listen  while  I  whisper  low ! 

The  Honeysuckle  told  the  Bee, 
(Her  girls  wore  out  their  gowns,  you  know !) 

And  Master  Buzz  told  me. 

'Twas  done  for  Some  One's  sake,  I  ween, 
Who  by  and  by  will  hither  float, 

All  gay  in  gold  and  emerald  green, 
With  rubies  round  his  throat ! 

1  You  doubt  me  ?     Hearken  !     There  he  went, 

The  flashing  Prince  of  Idle  Hours, 
Whose  silvery  sing-song  compliment 
Delights  the  flattered  flowers  ! " 


CHILD    SONGS. 


WOOL-GATHERING. 

"\  "I  7  HERE  are  my  Five  Wits  gone, 

*  And  will  they  come  back  soon  ? 

They're  gone  a-gathering  wool 
In  the  Valleys  of  the  Moon. 

There  the  little  Dream-Sheep, 
That  look  like  mounds  of  snow, 

Thiough  the  green,  green  meadows 
Go  grazing  to  and  fro. 

Thither  have  I  sent  them, 

Those  Five  Wits  of  mine, 
Two  with  bags,  and  two  with  crooks, 

And  one  with  shears  that  shine. 

They  catch  the  little  Dream-Sheep 

And  cut  their  fleece  away, 
All  to  weave  a  story  from 

Upon  another  day! 
104 


QBE  RON. 

II. 
THE    LAND    WITHOUT  A   NAME. 

"I  1  7*HERE  the  Sun  sails  bold  on  the  Sea  of  Gold 

*  *       Past  the  Violet  Islands  fair, 
And  the  ragged  shapes  of  the  Rosy  Capes 

And  the  Castles  of  the  Air, 
Can  you  call  aright  all  that  country  bright 

That  is  washed  by  waves  like  flame  ? 
'Tis  the  coast  admired,  'tis  the  clime  desired — 

Tis  the  Land  Without  a  Name! 


And  the  way  to  go,  since  you  fain  would  know, 

Is  to  charter  the  Crescent  Ship, 
All  of  silver  pale,  with  a  cobweb  sail, 

And  merrily  does  she  dip ! 
There's  a  crew  of  Hopes  at  her  filmy  ropes, 

And  on  board  that  ship  of  fame 
Many  a  longing  Dream  seeks  the  shores  agleam 

Of  the  Land  Without  a  Name! 


OBERON. 

III. 

A  LULLABY. 

*\JOW  while  rest  the  happy  herds, 
And  in  folds  the  fleecy  sheep, 
All  the  boughs  are  full  of  birds, 
Crowding,  sound  asleep. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 

Under  the  fair,  fair  flocks  of  stars 
That  roam  all  night  and  know  no  bars, 
Sleep,  sweet,  sleep! 

Now  if  we  an  Owl  could  ride, — 

Yes,  an  Owl  with  yellow  eyes, 
Globy  lanterns,  clear  and  wide, 

Flaming  while  he  flies, — 

We  should  see  the  pretty  things, 

Pretty  little  sleepy  souls ! 
All  their  heads  beneath  their  wings, 
Blind  with  sleep  as  moles! 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 

Under  the  wild,  winged  winds  that  fly 
All  night  long  across  the  sky, 
Sleep,  sweet,  sleep! 

106 


PUCK. 


PUCK. 

A   SK  not  my  master,  Oberon,  why  still 
**•     He  keeps  among  his  train  this  freakish  sprite: 
For  sooth  to  say,  the  elf  intends  no  ill ; 

He  never  changed  a  word  with  Goblin  Spite, 

Else  Oberon  had  banished  him  outright. 
Not  his  to  flee  at  cock-crow;  he  was  born 
Of  blameless  Mirth,  and  looks  upon  the  morn. 
1  Good-fellow,  and  sweet  Puck,"   some  folk  do  name  him ; 
I  pray  you  of  your  kindness  not  to  blame  him! 

— Lo,  while  I  would  bespeak  you,  here  he  rides! 

A  columbine  he  bears  upon  his  head 
For  jester's  cap,  and  for  a  steed  he  guides 

A  mocking  catbird  with  a  spider's  thread. 


109 


NARCISSUS  IN   CAMDEN. 

A   CLASSICAL  DIALOGUE  OF  THE  YEAR   1882. 

("  In  the  course  of  his  lecture  Mr. remarked  that 

the  most  impressive  room  he  had  yet  entered  in  America 

was  the  one  in  Camden  town  where  he  met .    // 

contained  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  sunlight.    .    .    .  On  the 
table  was  a  simple  cruse  of  water"  .  .  .) 

PAUMANOKIDES.    NARCISSUS. 

PAUMANOKIDES. 

Who  may  this  be? 

This  young  man  clad  unusually,  with  loose  locks,  lan 
guorous,  glidingly  toward  me  advancing, 

Toward  the  ceiling  of  my  chamber  his  orbic  and  expres 
sive  eye-balls  uprolling, 

As  I  have  seen  the  green-necked  wild-fowl  the  mallard 
in  the  thundering  of  the  storm, 

By  the  weedy  shore  of  Paumanok  my  fish-shaped  island. 

Sit  down,  young  man ! 

I  do  not  know  you,  but  I  love  you  with  burning  intensity, 


PUCK. 

I  am  he  that  loves  the  young  men,  whosoever  and  where 
soever  they  are  or  may  be  hereafter,  or  may  have 
been  any  time  in  the  past, 

Loves  the  eye-glassed  literat,  loves  also  and  probably 
more  the  vender  of  clams,  raucous-throated,  monot 
onous-chanting, 

Loves  the  Elevated  Railroad  employee  of  Mannahatta, 
my  city; 

I  suppress  the  rest  of  the  list  of  the  persons  I  love, 
solely  because  I  love  you, 

Sit  down  Jleve,  I  receive  you ! 

NARCISSUS. 

O  clarion,  from  whose  brazen  throat 

Strange  sounds  across  the  seas  are  blown, 
Where  England,  girt  as  with  a  moat, 
A  strong  sea-lion,  sits  alone ! 

A  pilgrim  from  that  white-cliffed  shore, 
What  joy,  large  flower  of  Western  land, 

To  seek  thy  democratic  door, 

With  eager  hand  to  clasp  thy  hand! 

PAUMANOKIDES. 

Right  you  are! 

Take  then  the  electric  pressure  of  these  fingers,  O  my 
Comrade ! 


PUCK. 

I  do  not  doubt  you  are  the  one  I  was  waiting  for,  as  I 

loaf'd  here  enjoying  my  soul, 
Let  us  two  under  all  and  any  circumstances  stick  together 

from  this  out! 

NARCISSUS. 

Seeing  that  isle  of  which  I  spake  but  late 

By  ignorant  demagogues  is  held  in  fee, 

The  grand  Greek  limbs  of  young  Democracy 
Beckoned  me  thence  to  this  ideal  State, 
Where  maiden  fields  of  life  Hellenic  wait 

For  one  who  in  clear  culture  walks  apart 

(Avoiding  all  rude  clamors  of  the  mart 
That  mar  his  calm)  to  sow  the  seeds  of  great 

Growths  yet  to  be — the  love  of  sacred  Art, 
And  Beauty,  of  this  breast  queen  consecrate, 
Whose  throne  mean  Science  seeks  to  violate; 

The  flawless  artist's  lunacy  serene, 
His  purely  passionate  and  perfect  hate 

And  noble  scorn  of  all  things  Philistine. 

PAUMANOKIDES. 

Hold  up  there,  Camerado ! 

Beauty  is  all  very  good  as   far  as   it  goes,  and  Art  the 

perpetuator  of  Beauty  is   all  very  good   as   far  as  it 

goes,  but  you  can  tell  your  folks, 


PUCK. 

Your  folks  in  London,  or  in  Dublin,  or  in  Rome,  or 
where  the  Arno  flows,  or  where  Seine  flows, 

Your  folks  in  the  picture-galleries,  admiring  the  Raphaels, 
the  Tintorettos,  the  Rubenses,  Vandykes,  Correg- 
gios,  Murillos,  Angelicos  of  the  world, 

(I  know  them  all,  they  have  effused  to  me,  I  have  wrung 
them  out,  I  have  abandoned  them,  I  have  got  be 
yond  them,) — 

NARCISSUS  (aside,  with  tenderness). 

Ah,  Burne-Jones! 

PAUMANOKIDES. 

Tell  them  that  I  am  considerably  more  than  Beauty! 

I,  representing  the  bone  and  muscle  and  cartilage  and 
adipose  tissue  and  pluck  of  the  Sierras,  of  Califor 
nia,  of  the  double  Carolinas,  of  the  Granite  State, 
and  the  Narragansett  Bay  State,  and  the  Wooden 
Nutmeg  State! 

I,  screaming  with  the  scream  of  the  bald-headed  bird 
the  eagle  in  the  primitive  woods  of  America  my 
country,  in  the  hundred  and  sixth  year  of  these 
States ! 

Dear  son,  I  have  learned  the  secret  of  the  Universe, 
I  learned   it   from   my  original  bonne,  the  white-capped 
ocean, 

"3 


PUCK. 

I  learned  it  from  the  Ninth-month  Equinoctial,  from  the 
redwood  tree,  and  the  Civil  War,  and  the  hermit- 
thrush,  and  the  telephone,  and  the  Corliss  engine, 

The  secret  of  the  Universe  is  not  Beauty,  dear  son,  nor 
is  it  Art  the  perpetuator  of  Beauty, 

The  secret  of  the  Universe  is  to  admire  one's  self. 

Camerado,  you  hear  me! 

NARCISSUS. 

Ah,  I  too  loitering  on  an  eve  of  June 

Where  one  wan  Narciss  leaned  above  a  pool, 
While  overhead  Queen  Dian  rose  too  soon, 
And  through  the  Tyrian  clematis  the  cool 
Night  airs  came  wandering  wearily,  I  too, 
Beholding  that  pale  flower,  beheld  Life's  key  at  last,  and 
knew 

That  love  of  one's  fair  self  were  but  indeed 
Just  worship  of  pure  Beauty;  and  I  gave 

One  sweet,  sad  sigh,  then  bade  my  fond  eyes  feed 
Upon  the  mirrored  treasure  of  the  wave, 

Like  that  lithe  beauteous  boy  in  Tempe's  vale, 

Whom  hapless  Echo  loved — thou  know'st  the  Heliconian 
tale! 

And  while  heaven's  harmony  in  lake  and  gold 
Changed  to  a  faint  nocturne  of  silvern-gray, 
114 


PUCK. 

Like  rising  sea-mists  from  my  spirit  rolled 
The  grievous  vapors  of  this  Age  of  Clay, 
Beholding  Beauty's  re-arisen  shrine, 
And  the  white  glory  of  this  precious  loveliness  of  mine ! 


PAUMANOKIDES. 

I  catch  on,  my  Comrade ! 

— You  allow  that  your  aim  is  similar  to  mine,  after  all 
is  said  and  done. 

Well,  there  is  not  much  similarity  of  style,  and  I  recom 
mend  my  style  to  you. 

-  Go  gaze   upon  the  native  rock-piles  of   Mannahatta,  my 
city, 

Formless,  reckless, 

Marked  with  the  emerald  miracle  of  moss,  tufted  with  the 
unutterable  wonder  of  the  exquisite  green  grass, 

Giving  pasture  to  the  spry  and  fearless-footed  quad 
ruped  the  goat, 

Also  patched  by  the  heaven-ambitious  citizens  with  the 
yellow  handbill,  the  advertisement  of  patent  soaps, 
the  glaring  and  vari-colored  circus  poster: 

Mine,  too,  for  reasons,  such  arrays; 

Such  my  unfettered  verse,  scorning  the  delicatesse  of 
dilettantes. 

Try  it,  I'll  stake  you  my  ultimate  dollar  you'll  like  it. 

"5 


PUCK. 

NARCISSUS  (gracefully  waiving  the  point}. 

Haply  in   the   far,   the   orient   future,   in  the  dawn  we 

herald  like  the  birds, 

Men  shall  read  the  legend  of  our  meeting,  linger  o'er 
the  music  of  our  words; 

Haply  coming  poets  shall  compare  me  then   to  Milton 

in  his  lovely  youth, 
Sitting  in  the  cell  of  Galileo,  learning  at  his  elder's  lips 

the  truth. 

Haply  they  shall  liken  these  dear  moments,  safely  held 
in  History's  amber  clear, 

Unto  Dante's  converse  bland  with  Virgil,  on  the  mar 
gin  of  that  gloomy  mere ! 

PAUMANOKIDES. 

Do  not  be  deceived,  dear  son ; 

Amid   the  choruses   of   the   morn  of  progress,  roaring, 

hilarious,  those  names  will  be  heard  no  longer. 
Galileo  was  admirable  once,  Milton  was  admirable, 
Dante  the  7-talian  was  a  cute  man  in  his  way, 
But  he  was  not  the  maker  of  poems,  the  Answerer ! 
I  Paumanokides  am  the  maker  of  poems,  the  Answerer, 
And  I  calculate  to  chant  as  long  as  the  earth  revolves, 
To  an   interminable  audience  of  haughty,  effusive,  copi 
ous,  gritty,  and  chipper  Americanos! 

116 


PUCK. 

NARCISSUS. 

What  more  is  left  to  say  or  do? 

Our  minds  have  met ;   our  hands  must  part. 
I  go  to  plant  in  pastures  new 
The  love  of  Beauty  and  of  Art. 

I'll  shortly  start. 

One  town  is  rather  small  for  two 
Like  me  and  you! 

PAUMANOKIDES. 
So  long ! 


THE  SONG  OF  SIR  PALAMEDE 

"  Came  Palamede,  upon  a  secret  quest, 
To  high   Tintagel,  and  abode  as  guest 
In  likeness  of  a  minstrel  'with  the  king. 
Nor  "was  there  man  could  sound  so  sweet  a  string. 

****** 
To  that  strange  minstrel  strongly  swore  King  Mark, 
By  all  that  makes  a  knight's  faith  firm  and  strong, 
That  he,  as  guerdon  of  his  harp  and  song, 
Might  crave  and  have  his  liking. 

*         *         *  <  Q  King,  I  crave 

No  gift  of  man  that  king  may  give  to  slave, 
But  this  thy  crowned  queen  only,  this  thy  wife.' " 

SWINBURNE.     Tristram  of  Lyonesse. 

"1 1  7ITH  flow  exhaustless  of  alliterate  words, 

And  rhymes  that  mate  in  music  glad  as  birds 
That  feel  the  spring's  sweet  life  among  light  leaves 
That  ardent  breath  of  amorous  May  upheaves 
And  kindles  fluctuant  to  an  emerald  fire 
Bright  as  the  imperious  seas  that  all  men's  souls  desire: 

118 


PUCK. 

With  long  strong  swell  of  alexandrine  lines, 
And  with  passion  of  anapaests,  like  winds  in  pines 
That  moan  and  mutter  in  great  gusts  suddenly, 
With  whirl  of  wild  wet  wings  of  storms  set  free: 
In  mirth  of  might  and  very  joy  to  sing,  9 

Uplifting  voice  untired,  I  sound  one  sole  sweet  string. 

Love,  that  is  ever  bitter  as  salt  blown  spray, 
Yet  sweet,  yea  sweet  as  wrath  or  wine  alway, 
As  red  warm  mouths  of  Maenads  subtly  sweet; 
Love,  that  is  fleeter  than  the  wind's  fleet  feet 
Soft-shod  with  snowflakes;  love,  that  hath  the  name 
And  fury  and  force  of  swift  bright  shuddering  flame: 
Fate,  that  is  foe  to  love  and  lovely  life, 
Yea  foe  implacable,  and  hath  death  to  wife ; 
Fate,  that  is  bitterer  than  the  salt  spray  blown 
And  colder  than  soft  snow  yet  hard  as  stone; 
Fate,  that  makes  daily  fare  of  heart's  desire, 
Being  found  thereunto  a  devouring  fire: 
Death,  that  is  friend  to  fate  and  fair  love's  foe ; 
Death,  that  makes  waste  the  wolds  of  life  with  snow 
Death,  harsh  as  spray  of  seas  that  wild  winds  blow: 
Life,  that  is  strangely  one  of  all  these  three, 
Being  bitter  as  is  the  sharp  salt  spray  of  sea, 
And  thereto  colder  than  the  blown  white  rose 
And  soft  brief  blossom  of  unmothered  snows, 


PUCK. 

And  fiercer  than  the  forceful  feathered  fire, 

Fed  as  a  flame  with  hope  of  heart  and  high  desire: 

All  these  I  sing,  and  sound  the  same  sweet  string. 


And  as  fresh-gathered  leaves  of  bay  I  bring 

Green  praises  to  all  dear  dead  lute-players, 

Whom  Pluto's  passionate  queen  holds  fast  as  hers, 

Yea  all  sad  souls  that  have  smiled  and  sinned  and  sung, 

With  whose  gold-colored  hairs  and  hoar  this  harp  is  strung. 

And  blame  of  the  high  great  gods  that  do  amiss, 

Being  cruel  and  crowned  and  bathed  complete  in  bliss, 

And  careless  if  this  world  be  out  of  tune, 

And  deaf  to  dithyrambs  of  bards  that  bay  the  moon: 

And  all  perfections  of  all  those  I  love, 

Each  bettering  still  the  best  and  still  above 

The  last  this  violent  voice  proclaimed  the  best, 

And  blown  by  stormy  breath  still  starward  o'er  the  rest; 

And  all  large  loathsomeness  of  all  I  hate, 

Whose  poisonous  presence  doth  Cai'na  wait, 

And  better  it  were  that  they  had  ne'er  been  born, 

I  being  dowrered  with  hate  of  hate  and  scorn  of  scorn, 

And  shrinking  not  to  name  them  newts  and  snakes, 

Lepers  and  toads  and  frogs  and  hooting  owls  and  crakes: 

All  these  with  ease  of  measureless  might  I  sing, 

And  sound,  though  sheer  stark  mad,  the  same  sweet  string. 


PUCK. 

And  many  a  theme  I  choose  in  wayfaring, 

As  one  who  passing  plucks  the  sunflower 

And  ponders  on  her  looks  for  love  of  her. 

Yea,  her  flower-named  whose  fate  was  like  a  flower, 

Being  bright  and  brief  and  broken  in  an  hour 

And  whirled  of  winds:  and  her  whose  lawless  hand 

Held  flickering  flame  to  fawn  against  the  brand, 

Till  Meleager  splendid  as  the  sun 

Shrank  to  a  star  and  set,  and  all  her  day  was  done: 

And  her  who  lent  her  slight  white  virgin  light 

For  death  to  dim,  that  Athens'  mastering  might 

Above  all  seas  should  shine,  supernal  sphere  of  night: 

And  her  who  kept  the  high  knight  amorous 

Pent  in  her  hollow  hill-house  marvelous, 

And  flame  of  flowers  brake  beauteous  where  she  trod, 

Her  who  hath  wine  and  honey  and  a  rod, 

And  crowneth  man  a  king,  and  maketh  man  a  slave, 

Her  who  rose  rose-red  from  the  rose-white  wave : 

And  her  who  ruled  with  sword-blue  blade-bright  eyes 

The  helpless  hearts  of  men  in  queenly  wise, 

And  all  were  bowed  and  broken  as  on  a  wheel, 

Yet  no  soft  love-cloud  long  could  sheath  that  stainless  steel, 

Her  tiger-hearted  and  false  and  glorious, 

With  flower-sweet  throat  and  float  of  warm  hair  odorous; 

These  sing  I,  and  whatso  else  that  burns  and  glows, 

And  is  as  fire  and  foam-flowers  and  the  rose 


PUCK. 

And  sun  and  stars  and  wan  warm  moon  and  snows. 
Who  hath  said  that  I  have  not  made  my  song  to  shine 
With  such  bright  words  as  seal  a  song  to  be  divine? 
Who  hath  said  that  I  have  not  sweetness  thereon  spread 
As  gold  of  peerless  honey  is  poured  on  bread? 
Who  hath  said  that  I  make  not  all  men's  brains  to  ring, 
And  swim  with  imminent  madness  while  I  sing, 
And  fall  as  feeble  dykes  before  strong  tides  of  spring? 
And  now  as  guerdon  of  my  great  song  I  claim 
The  swan-white  pearl  of  singers,  yea  Queen  Fame, 
Who  shall  be  wed  no  more  to  languid  lips  and  tame, 
But  clasp  me  and  kiss  and  call  me  by  my  name, 
And  be  all  my  days  about  me  as  a  flame, 
Though  sane  vain  lame   tame  cranes   sans   shame   make 
game  and  blame! 


A  MERRY  JEST  OF  A  MODERN  MAID. 

TV/TISS  Pallas  Eudora  Van  Blurky, 
I***-     She  didn't  know  chicken  from  turkey; 
High-Spanish  and  Greek  she  could  fluently  speak, 
But  her  knowledge  of  poultry  was  murky! 

She  could  tell  the  great-uncle  of  Moses, 

And  the  dates  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses, 

And  the  reasons  of  things — why  the  Indians  wore  rings 

In  their  red  aboriginal  noses; 

Why  Shakspere  was  wrong  in  his  grammar, 
And  the  meaning  of  Emerson's  BRAHMA, 
And  she  went  chipping  rocks  with  a  little  black  box 
And  a  small  geological  hammer. 

She  had  views  upon  co-education, 
And  the  principal  needs  of  the  nation, 
And  her  glasses  were  blue,  and  the  number  she  knew 
Of  the  stars  in  each  bright  constellation. 
123 


PUCK. 

And  she  wrote  with  a  handwriting  clerky, 

And  she  talked  with  an  emphasis  jerky, 

And  she  painted  on  tiles  in  the  sweetest  of  styles, 

But  she  didn't  know  chicken  from  turkey! 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  HERCULES  CLUB. 

BEING  A   BALLAD  OF  TO-DAY,  DESIGNED  TO  ILLUSTRATE 

THE  PRINCIPLE  OF  REACTION,  AND  TO  SET  FORTH 

HOW  THERE    MAY    BE    TOO    MUCH   OF  AN 

EXCELLENT   THING. 

'  I  ^HERE  was  once  a  young  man  of  the  medium  size, 

Who,  by  keeping  a  ledger,  himself  kept  likewise. 
In  the  matter  of  lunch  he'd  a  leaning  to  pies, 
And  his  chronic  dyspepsia  will  hence  not  surprise; 
And  his  friends  often  told  him,  with  tears  in  their  eyes, 
Which  they  did  not  disguise,  that  a  person  who  tries 
To  live  without  exercise  generally  dies, 
And  declared,  for  the  sake  of  his  family  ties, 
He  should  enter  the  Hercules  Club. 

Tom  Box  and  Dick  Dumbell  would  suasively  say, 
If  they  met  him  by  chance  in  the  roar  of  Broadway, 
"It's  bad  for  a  fellow,  all  work  and  no  play; 
Come,  let  us  propose  you!     You'll  find  it  will  pay 
To  belong  to  the  Hercules  Club ! " 
125 


PUCK. 

And  he  yielded  at  last,  and  they  put  up  his  name, 
Which  was  found  without  blame;  and   they  put  down  the 

same 

In  a  roll-book  tremendous;  and  straight  he  became 
A  Samson,  regarding  his  tame  past  with  shame; 
Called  for  "Beef,  lean  and  rare!"  and  cut  off  all  his  hair, 
Had  his  shoulders  constructed  abnormally  square, 
And  walked  out  with  an  air  that  made  people  declare, 
"He  belongs  to  the  Hercules  Club!" 

And  he  often  remarked,  in  original  way : 
"  It's  bad  for  a  fellow,  all  work  and  no  play ; 
Without  recreation,  sir,  life  doesn't  pay ! 
And  I  for  my  part  am  most  happy  to  say 
I  belong  to  the  Hercules  Club." 

And  frequently  during  a  very  hot  "spell," 
In  thick  woolen  garments  clad  closely  and  well, 
"  Reducing," — for  he  was  resolved  to  excel, — 
lie  rowed  in  the  sun  at  full  speed,  in  a  shell 
That  belonged  to  the  Hercules  Club. 

And  for  weeks,  while  the  dew  on  the  racing-track  lay, 
He  ran  before  breakfast  a  half  mile  a  day, 
Improving  his  style  and  increasing  his  "stay''; 
And  was  first  at  the  finish,  and  fainted  away, 
At  the  games  of  the  Hercules  Club. 
126 


PUCK. 

Six  nights  in  succession  he  sat  up  to  pore 
"  The  Laws  of  Athletics "  devotedly  o'er 
(Which  number  ten  thousand  and  seventy-four), 
With  a  view  to  proposing  a  very  few  more 
In  a  speech  to  the  Hercules  Club. 


And  his  coat  upon  festal  occasions  was  gay 
With  medals  on  medals,  marked  "H.  A.  A.  A.,"* 
With  a  motto  in  Greek  (which,  my  lore  to  display, 
Means  "Pleasure  is  business"),  a  splendid  array 
Of  the  spoils  of  the  Hercules  Club. 


But  acquaintances  not  of  the  muscular  kind 
Began  to  observe  that  his  brow  was  deep-lined, 
Too  brilliant  his  eye,  and  to  wander  inclined; 
He  appeared,  in  a  word  (early  English),  "fore-pined"; 
And  one  morning  his  ledger  and  desk  he  resigned, 
Explaining,  "  I  can't  have  my  health  undermined 
By  this  '  demnition  grind ';  and  I'm  getting  behind 
In.  my  duties  as  Captain  "  (an  office  defined, 
Page  hundred  and  two,  in  the  by-laws  that  bind 
With  red  tape  the  great  Hercules  Club). 

*  "  H.  A.  A.  A."  :  Hercules  Amateur  Athletic  Association. 
127 


PUCK. 

And  he  further  remarked,  in  most  serious  way: 
"Give  it  up,  did  you  say?     'Twill  be  frigid,  that  daylf 
Why,  without  relaxation,  sir,  life  wouldn't  pay! 
And  I,  for  my  part,  will  remain  till  I'm  gray 
On  the  roll  of  the  Hercules  Club ! " 

You  perceive,  gentle  reader,  the  rub. 
Is  it  nobler  to  suffer  those  arrows  and  slings 
Lack  of  exercise  brings — or  take  clubs,  and  let  things 
Unconnected  with  matters  athletic  take  wings; 
Till  all  interests  beside,  like  the  Arabs,  shall  glide 
From  the  landscape  of  life,  once  a  plain  free  and  wide, 
But  now  fenced  for  the  "  Games "  which  we  lightly  began, 
Grown  our  serious  aims  and  the  chief  end  of  Man? 
There's  an  aureate  mean  these  two  courses  between, 
But  I  humbly  submit  that  it  seldom  is  seen, 
With  all  proper  respect  for  that  organization, 
Of  benevolent  purpose  and  high  reputation, 

The  excellent  Hercules  Club! 

t  Frigid  day,  or  day  of  low  temperature  :  A  singular  idiom  of  the  American 
language,  expressing  grave  improbability. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  CASSANDRA  BROWN. 

HPHOUGH  I   met    her    in    the    summer,    when    one's 

heart  lies  round  at  ease, 
As  it  were   in  tennis   costume,  and  a  man's  not  hard  to 

please, 

Yet  I  think  at  any  season  to  have  met  her  was  to  love, 
While  her  tones,  unspoiled,  unstudied,  had  the  softness  of 

the  dove. 

At  request    she    read    us    poems   in   a  nook  among  the 

pines, 
And  her  artless  voice  lent  music  to   the  least  melodious 

lines  ; 
Though  she  lowered  her  shadowing  lashes,  in  an  earnest 

reader's  wise, 
Yet  we  caught  blue  gracious  glimpses  of  the  heavens  that 

were  her  eyes. 

As  in  paradise  I  listened.    Ah,  I  did  not  understand 
That  a  little  cloud,   no   larger   than  the   average  human 
hand, 

129 


PUCK. 

Might,  as  stated  oft  in  fiction,  spread  into  a  sable  pall, 
When   she    said  that  she  should   study   Elocution   in  the 
fall! 

I  admit  her  earliest  efforts  were  not  in  the  Ercles  vein ; 
She  began  with,  "  Lit-tle  Maaybel,  with  her  faayce  against 

the  paayne, 
And    the    beacon-light    a-trrremble," — which    although    it 

made  me  wince, 
Is  a  thing  of  cheerful  nature  to  the  things  she's  rendered 

since. 

Having  learned  the  Soulful  Quiver,  she  acquired  the  Melt 
ing  Mo-o-an, 

And  the  way  she  gave  "Young  Grayhead,"  would  have 
liquefied  a  stone. 

Then  the  Sanguinary  Tragic  did  her  energies  employ, 

And  she  tore  my  taste  to  tatters  when  she  slew  "The 
Polish  Boy." 

It's  not  pleasant  for  a  fellow  when  the  jewel  of  his  soul 
Wades  through  slaughter  on  the  carpet,   while   her  orbs 

in  frenzy  roll; 
What    was    I    that    I    should  murmur?    Yet  it  gave  me 

grievous  pain 
That  she  rose  in  social  gatherings    and   Searched  among 

the  Slain. 

130 


PUCK. 

I  was  forced  to  look  upon  her,  in  my  desperation  dumb, 
Knowing  well  that  when  her  awful  opportunity  was  come 
She  would  give  us  battle,  murder,  sudden  death  at  very 

least, 
As  a  skeleton  of  warning,  and  a  blight  upon  the  feast. 

Once,  ah  !    once  I  fell   a-dreaming ;    some   one   played   a 

polonaise 

I  associated  strongly  with  those  happier  August  days ; 
And   I   mused,   "  I'll  speak   this    evening,"    recent   pangs 

forgotten  quite. 
Sudden  shrilled  a  scream  of    anguish :    "  Curfew    SHALL 

not  ring  to-night ! " 

Ah,  that  sound  was   as   a   curfew,  quenching  rosy   warm 

romance : 
Were  it  safe  to  wed  a  woman  one  so  oft   would  wish   in 

France  ? 
Oh,  as  she  "  cull-imbed  "  that  ladder,  swift  my  mounting 

hope  came  down. 

I  am  still  a  single  cynic;    she  is  still  Cassandra  Brown! 

— Coroebus  Green. 


THE  SWEET  O'  THE  YEAR.* 

ACT  I. 
SCENE. — A  LOWLY  COT. 

TENANT  (Tenor). 
TENANT'S  WIFE  (Soprano). 
TENANT'S  MOTHER-IN-LAW  (Contralto). 
LANDLORD  (Basso). 

TENOR  SOLO. 

How  happy  is  our  lot, 

Beneath  our  vines  and  fig-trees, 
In  this  suburban  spot, 

Among  so  many  big  trees ! 
Our  landlord  's  very  kind, 

His  speech  is  mild  and  gentle, 
He  never  was  inclined 

To  go  and  raise  the  rental. 


*  This  trifle  may  derive  interest  from  the  music,  by  MR.  E.  C.  PHELPS,  in 
Scribner^s  Monthly  for  August,  1880. 

132 


PUCK. 

TRIO. 

How  happy  is  our  lot 

Beneath  our  vines  and  fig-trees, 

In  this  suburban  spot, 

Among  so  many  big  trees; 

How  happy  is  our  lot ! 

How  happy  is  our  lot! 

Enter  Landlord.  BASSO. 

How  do  you  do? 
Aside.         I'll  try  a  few  devices; 

I've  paid  a  five-cent  fare, 
To  see  if  my  premises 

Were  wanting  much  repair. 

TENOR. 

Sir,  the  whole  house  neat  and  nice  is, 
And  requires  no  extra  care. 

BASSO. 

Aside.         Got  him  there! 

Direct.        This  is  indeed  a  lovely  spot. 

TENOR. 

Beyond  compare. 

133 


Aside. 
Direct. 


PUCK. 

BASSO. 

Got  him  there! 

I  think  you  never  find  it  hot? 


TENOR. 


Fine  cool  air. 


Aside. 
Direct. 


Aside. 
Direct. 


Aside. 
Direct. 


BASSO. 

Got  him  there! 

Handy  to  the  cars  and  boats? 


TENOR. 


Pretty  fair. 


BASSO. 

Got  him  there! 

Far  removed  from  geese  and  goats? 


TENOR. 


So  we  air. 


BASSO. 

Got  him  there! 

Think  I've  got  him  everywhere. 
Bless  you!  after  so  much  praise 
I  shall  really  have  to  raise. 

'34 


PUCK. 

Mother-in-law.  CONTRALTO. 

To  Tenor.  Oh,  oh,  oh! 
No,  no,  no! 
Have  you  the  feelings  of  a  man 

To  stand  such  wicked  imposition? 
An  old  house  built  on  such  a  plan, 
And  in  the  very  worst  condition. 

SOPRANO. 

The  paper's  hanging  on  the  wall. 

CONTRALTO. 

The  plaster's  tumbling  from  the  ceiling. 

SOPRANO. 

The  front  piazza  is  liable  to  fall. 

CONTRALTO. 

Oh,  are  you  a  man  of  any  feeling? 

TENOR. 

I  won't  pay! 

BASSO. 

First  of  May. 
INTERMISSION — Agent  heard  without  tacking  up  bill. 


PUCK. 

ACT  II. 

ENTER  LEFT— Chorus   of  Feminine  House-Seekers    and 
Chorus  of  Masculine  House- Seekers,  waving  permits. 

FULL   CHORUS. 

I  want  to  see 

TENOR. 
Oh,  certainly! 
Be  kind  enough  to  follow  me. 

FEMALE  CHORUS. 

This  parlor's  rather  nice; 

This  parlor's  rather  small; 
Are  you  troubled  with  rats  and  mice? 

Will  the  landlord  paint  the  wall? 

MALE  CHORUS. 
Does  the  roof  leak  when  it's  clear? 

FEMALE  CHORUS. 

Are  the  bedrooms  tinted  blue? 
How  long  have  you  lived  here? 
Will  the  range  cook  oyster  stew? 

Exeunt,  R. 

FULL  CHORUS  (re-entering,  7?.) 
It  wouldn't  do! 

136 


PUCK. 

FEMALE  CHORUS. 

It's  warm! 

MALE  CHORUS. 

It's  cold! 

FEMALE   CHORUS. 

It's  quite  too  new! 

MALE   CHORUS. 

It's  quite  too  old! 

FULL  CHORUS. 
I  wanted  gas! 
I  wanted  grass! 

We  all  expected  fine  plate-glass! 
And  shelves  for  cheese! 
And  orange  trees! 
And  beds  for  raising  strawberries ! 

I  dwell  in  a  marble  hall, 
And  I  couldn't  make  it  do; 

And  I  don't  see  how  you  live  at  all; 
And  I'm  much  obliged  to  you. 


137 


THE   TENDER  HEART. 


HE  gazed  upon  the  burnished  brace 

Of  plump  ruffed  grouse  he  showed  with  pride 
Angelic  grief  was  in  her  face : 

"How  could  you  do  it,  dear?  "  she  sighed. 
"  The  poor,  pathetic,  moveless  wings ! 

The  songs  all  hushed — oh,  cruel  shame!" 
Said  he,  "The  partridge  never  sings." 
Said  she,  "  The  sin  is  quite  the  same. 


"You  men  are  savage  through  and  through. 

A  boy  is  always  bringing  in 
Some  string  of  bird's  eggs,  white  and  blue, 

Or  butterfly  upon  a  pin. 
The  angle-worm  in  anguish  dies, 

Impaled,  the  pretty  trout  to  tease " 

"  My  own,  I  fish  for  trout  with  flies " 

"  Don't  wander  from  the  question,  please ! 


PUCK. 

She  quoted  Burns's  "Wounded  Hare," 

And  certain  burning  lines  of  Blake's, 
And  Ruskin  on  the  fowls  of  air, 

And  Coleridge  on  the  water-snakes. 
At  Emerson's  "  Forbearance  "  he 

Began  to  feel  his  will  benumbed ; 
At  Browning's  "  Donald  "  utterly 

His  soul  surrendered  and  succumbed. 

"Oh,  gentlest  of  all  gentle  girls," 

He  thought,  "beneath  the  blessed  sun! 
He  saw  her  lashes  hung  with  pearls, 

And  swore  to  give  away  his  gun. 
She  smiled  to  find  her  point  was  gained, 

And  went,  with  happy  parting  words 
(He  subsequently  ascertained), 

To  trim  her  hat  with  humming-birds. 


139 


— So  good  night  unto  you  all. 

Give  me  your  hands,  if  we  be  friends, 

And  Robin  shall  restore  amends. 

A  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream. 


140 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 


demand  may  be  renewed  iJ 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


made  before 


HOY  301920 


WOV  06 1987 


mist  NOV  11 1987 


50m-7,'16 


Oberon  an 
Puck 


N9V30 


d 371391 


953 

C747 

o 


*"""*'  **2J 


" 


371391 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


